


All These Things That I’ve Done

by not_without_you



Series: Battle Born [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anti-Sokovia Accords, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Christmas, Complete, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, On the Run, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovering!Bucky, Recovery, References to Illness, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Harm, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Smoking, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 124,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25295206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_without_you/pseuds/not_without_you
Summary: Steve was the patron saint of waiting too long. Bucky was atoning for his sins. Maybe they’d both been forsaken, abandoned by the light. Maybe they’d find a way back to each other again.Post civil war, if things had gone differently.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Battle Born [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2105022
Comments: 69
Kudos: 243





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy. — F. Scott Fitzgerald

It was hard thinking back on the time  _ before _ —the time Steve wasn’t positive they’d be strong enough collectively to pull through this. It was hard thinking back to the time spent in the medical wing of the Avengers Tower after bringing Bucky back from Wakanda in a tube. (At Bucky’s own insistence, he’d been put under again before transport.) It was  _ hard  _ watching Bucky defrost. 

Steve had taken every precaution, ensuring Bucky’s triggers hadn’t made an unwelcome return after being deprogrammed in Wakanda. Tony still surveilled the situation in varying levels of disdain. The civility between the two was  _ fragile,  _ but it was there, nonetheless. Stark knew he had fucked up royally, driven away the team; the only family he had. He was  _ too proud  _ for  _ apologies. (But  _ Steve was good enough not to expect one.) So Tony figured if he could do anything to make up for it, it was this. 

This was his olive branch.

Over the course of a few trying months, Steve had grown used to receiving side-eyes from the rest of the team, who were placing bets on whether this was a death wish or his age finally catching up to his brain. Regardless, none of them voiced any complaints. 

Except Tony, who did assure him that if anything happened— and something most likely  _ would  _ happen— it was blood on  _ Steve’s  _ hands and no one else’s. 

Steve recalled every uneasy conversation with Sam on the observation deck of the lab; Bucky in the Hulk cell below them looking cold and exhausted. Sitting in the corner with a thin blanket from the bed, he was refusing any help or medical attention. Still getting used to the new arm they’d crafted for him in Wakanda, he was  _ uncomfortable. _

It was a bad day— one where Bucky wouldn’t let anyone  _ near _ him. So naturally, Steve was there as well. (Even if it had to be at a distance.) Steve winced every time Bucky lashed out— though admittedly it wasn’t much of a relief that Bucky would redirect his anguish toward himself and end up the only one hurt.

Looking at Bucky far away through the glass, Steve thought this must be purgatory. Maybe he  _ had  _ died in the ice all those years ago and this was penance for his sins. Whatever he’d done must have been unforgivable. Maybe he was doomed to watch life play out like this; to make progress and immediately see setbacks— to lose Bucky over and over and over. 

Listening to Bucky beg to be put back in cryo had to be hell itself.

Steve remembered asking, pleading, if there was a God listening, ‘take me, take me but save him. Please, he’s better than me. He’s good. Let him be okay.’ Steve couldn't count how many times he’d offered himself up to take Bucky's place on the  _ off chance  _ that was how it worked. 

The triggers  _ were _ gone, which was a start. Stark had run half a million tests before Bucky was even allowed to step foot on the property. But the deep-rooted psychological damage caused by 70 years of torture wasn’t going to be so easily dispelled. 

In the lab, Bucky didn’t speak often. When he did, he’d bounce from asking what his mission was, to wondering if Steve was alive, to apologizing for everything he’d done as the Soldier and begging for death. 

Steve wondered a million times whether he’d done the right thing. This felt like a huge step backwards. So much of Bucky's recovery was based on the routine he'd established in Wakanda; in the isolation and quiet, rose-colored mornings with the goats. He was getting  _ better  _ . Was it selfish that Steve hadn't told him to stay? (At the end of the day, Bucky had made the choice to come home, but he wasn't without his own reservations.

Any time Bucky was stable enough to be allowed visitors, Steve was there. On good days, Bucky recognized him, which felt like nothing short of a goddamn miracle. ( _ Bucky  _ was a goddamn miracle.) It was painful, though, because Bucky very clearly wasn’t  _ well _ . It was so unlike him to be this quiet, but  _ he was still in there.  _

The bed in the holding cell remained made for the entire two week observation period. Now that he was being forced to re-confront his memories and trauma head on, Bucky didn’t sleep; at least not on his own volition. So, by extension, Steve didn’t sleep either. He never wanted to let his guard down for fear something would go wrong. 

There was the one instance, though, when Tony relented and knocked Bucky out with a sedative meant for a Hulk. He wasn’t down long, but at least he had rested for a few hours until his metabolism burned it up. 

(Tony considered knocking Steve out too, but one look at him said it would end in a fight. Stark hadn't earned the right to pick another fight with Steve.)

Sam and Nat checked in sporadically, clearly concerned that Steve was headed off the deep end. Maybe he was. His self-sacrificing behavior troubled them on a good day, and these were  _ not _ good days.

“I commend your persistence, but you’re not getting him back. At least not completely. He’s never going to be the kid you knew in the 30’s,” Sam had said on one of his visits— the last of which before Bucky was moved out of his holding cell and into Steve's apartment. Sam took a seat in the chair next to Steve and kicked his legs out in front of him.

“We didn’t come this far to  _ only _ come this far,” Steve said. He had never been the type to go back on his word. “I told him ‘til the end of the line.’”

“Okay, so I’m seeing some unresolved guilt here. I—”

“Don’t. Don’t psychoanalyze me right now, Sam. Please.” Steve rubbed at his tired eyes.

“Listen, all of y’all need some fuckin’ therapy,” Sam started. “But alright. I’m here as a friend. Clearly I’m not the goddamn voice of reason, because you’re doing this, aren’t you? You’re really ready to trust him like that?” Sam was skeptical— he had every right to be.

“There’s nothing you could say that would stop me,” Steve said. He wasn’t the type to back down from a fight, either. All it took was the one look. That was it. Bucky looked at him and Steve was already bracing to fistfight the army or Hydra or God himself.

Sighing, feeling aged by the whole experience, Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “Alright. What do you need from me?”

“Can you get his file back from Nat?” Steve had read the mission reports before. But when he tried to get through the outline of Bucky’s torture— in the handwriting of the monsters who’d carried it out—he couldn’t stomach it.

“You’re sure you want to do that, Rogers?” Sam asked.

“Yes.” Steve knew this might be the wrong call. He knew he’d probably see something he didn’t want to see. But he  _ had  _ to know.

A heaviness blanketed the break in the conversation, like Sam was trying to choose his words more carefully. Nervously, he cracked his knuckles.“I don’t mean to pry. But you’re my friend. And after what we went through, I think.. I deserve to know why.”

Steve nodded. After all, he  _ had  _ dragged Sam along on a wild goose chase—put him through a lot of shit.

“Who is he to you? Really. You don't see a lot of guys who’d fight this hard for a lost .. buddy,” Sam said.

‘ _ Lost cause,’ _ Steve thought. Sam had said before—God, it felt like a million years ago— something about Bucky not being someone you  _ save _ , rather, someone you  _ stop.  _

Steve thought, too, about Rumlow mocking him. ‘ _ You know, he knew you. Your pal, your buddy, your Bucky.’ _

Steve remembered not completely understanding the feeling deep in his chest— not understanding why he  _ froze  _ like that just hearing a name. If  _ freight car, seventeen,  _ and  _ homecoming  _ were Bucky’s trigger words, then  _ Bucky  _ was Steve’s. ( _ Bucky  _ had always been Steve’s.)

And here he was. Frozen again. 

For a minute, Steve didn’t think he was up to answering, but Sam deserved the truth. Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and dropped his head. “I love him, Sam.” 

“Like a brother?” Sam asked. 

“No.” When Steve looked up he could feel Sam’s eyes on him. Heart beating uncomfortably fast, he stared through the glass at Bucky drawing in a notebook instead.

“Okay,” Sam said.

“ _ Okay _ ?” 

“Okay. Then we’ll bring him back.” Sam only sounded a  _ little _ reluctant; mostly outweighed by the support.

“That’s it? You don’t seem all that surprised.” Steve turned to look at him,  _ calmness  _ coursing through him. Sam.. Sam was a good friend.

“We looked for him for  _ years,  _ my man. I figured he wasn’t just some guy you knew from Boy Scouts,” Sam laughed.

As cliche as it was, Steve felt like he could breathe easy for the first time in forever. His cheeks hurt from smiling. 

“They called it a mental illness, right? Homosexuality?” Sam asked. 

Steve nodded, the sheepish kind of nod of the  _ guilty.  _ “Yeah. And then after the serum, I woke up and realized I felt the same,” Steve admitted. “Imagine my surprise.” ( _ Relief _ . It was pure relief. Still being queer after all his other ailments had gone— still loving Bucky— was understanding that there had never been anything  _ wrong _ with him in the first place.)

“Things are different now. It’s not..  _ perfect _ . But it’s progress.” Sam nudged his shoulder. “You don’t have to hide now, man.”

Clapping Steve on the back, he left the room.

.

Nat stopped by later that morning to hand over the translated file, albeit reluctantly. Once again, she asked him to reconsider;  _ not to pull on that thread. _ Because, as she'd told Steve, of all the shit she'd seen in her days, this was some of the worst.

Clearly, she didn’t trust Bucky— didn’t trust the situation. (Probably didn’t appreciate the bullets he’d put in her, either.) Steve knew, though, how familiar she was with the ways Hydra could fuck up a person— how it felt to be used as a pawn. 

Realizing that she wasn’t going to change Steve’s mind, she got up from her seat beside him. Dragging her feet, Nat left him with a gentle pat on the hair and a quiet, “I sincerely hope this works out, for both of your sakes.”

In the weeks preceding Bucky’s arrival, they had essentially Hulk-proofed Steve’s floor of the tower. The windows were reinforced, the furniture was fixed to the floor. Tony was banking on a meltdown. Steve couldn’t afford one.

Steve had only left Bucky’s observation deck to stock up on groceries and to read the file. (He didn’t think he’d be able to do it with Bucky right in front of him, looking just as scared and tired as he most likely had in Hydra’s custody.) 

Accounts of Bucky’s captivity were as horrendous as Nat had promised. Whenever Steve had read what he’d through was the worst part, something more heinous came along. It outlined, in excruciating detail, every effort Hydra made to batter the ‘asset’ into acquiescence. 70 years worth of broken bones, suffocation, electrocution. They’d deprived him of sleep and food. They’d cut him just for the sake of watching him bleed. They’d taken him to the brink of hypothermia. There was even a note added in the margins about how the 'asset’ had lost his voice for a month because he’d blown out his vocal cords screaming.

Steve wanted to vomit. 

By the time he read about the suicide attempts—he was losing count of them—everything was blurring together like fog rolling across a lake, turning into one cohesive nightmare. Everything was  _ bad  _ on the surface, but Steve couldn’t  _ fathom  _ how deep it actually went—what lay beneath. 

All of that paired with the reports of the people Bucky had been forced to kill; it was almost too much. 

In a morbid way, Steve was  _ so  _ fucking proud of how long it took Hydra to break Bucky. (The better part of two decades.) Brainwashing was their last resort. It was time consuming, inconvenient and unpredictable. Hydra had expected to beat compliance into him. They  _ hadn’t _ expected this magnitude of resistance.

Bucky was so fucking strong. Down to the core of his being, he was good. With all the  _ fire  _ he had in him, he’d spent so many years fighting them back. (Steve wished everyone could see him that light.) Even when they’d taken his memories and violated him in every way possible, he’d fought like hell. 

Steve hoped Bucky would fight that hard to recover now. 

*

There were times early on when Bucky would look right at him like he didn’t even know him. At the end of the two weeks, when Steve could —with Stark’s permission— take Bucky out of his observation cell, Steve had to prove again that he could be trusted.

He took a cautious step forward just for Bucky to deadpan, “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m not going to,” Steve assured, keeping a fair amount of distance between them. “I was here earlier. Do you remember?”

“Steve?” Bucky could remember the sound of his voice, but he couldn’t remember what they’d talked about. 

“That’s right.”

Eyeing the man in front of him skeptically, Bucky struggled to come up with a question or  _ anything  _ only  _ his  _ Steve would know. Something to prove all of this was real. 

Everything in his memory felt hazy and far away, as if it had happened to someone else, but he was almost positive  _ his  _ Steve was smaller? Or maybe not. What had happened when he’d shipped out for England? He was sure something had happened. No no, that wasn’t right. Steve had found him again. He remembered Romania. And there was a fight. Had it been his fault? So many things were his fault. 

There were  _ holes  _ in his memory; blocks he couldn’t maneuver around. Distressing as it was, it helped, sometimes, to pick out small fragments and try to build them backwards. 

He closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of sun on his face in Wakanda; the way the goats would  _ baa  _ excitedly when they saw him; the way his heart flipped in his chest when he’d hear whispers from the children around the village that  _ Captain America was coming;  _ the way Steve looked at him when they’d take walks by the river.

(It was still difficult putting events in order, but he was getting better at it every day.)

When Bucky opened his eyes, he saw Steve in front of him, but wasn’t really  _ seeing _ him. Suddenly, he was  _ confused. Where was he? Why was he here? This wasn’t Wakanda. He was cold.  _

Noticing Bucky’s distress, Steve held up his hands, palms out in surrender. Bucky was looking  _ through  _ him for a way out. Steve could feel his panic tangibly in the air between them. But then again, he’d always been able to read Bucky. Calming him down had once been second nature. 

So, if he had to sit there all day and recount their shared history, he would. (Never anything  _ too  _ recent, those events were often painful.)

“We’d watch those Disney cartoons at the theater whenever we had the money. I used to put newspaper in my shoes, remember? And you always teased me for eating popcorn in milk,” Steve reminisced. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said after a long beat of silence, eventually letting his guard down. “Because that’s gross.”

The laugh that bubbled up in Steve’s throat was pure relief. 

.

Bringing Bucky up the stairs to his floor, Steve felt a wave of melancholy wash over him— pull him under. Bucky was quiet, letting Steve lead him down the corridors of the building without any resistance. 

Back before the war, everything was simpler. The only things they’d worried about were scrounging up enough money for rent and how they were going to stay cool in the oppressive heat of Brooklyn’s late summer. Their worst enemy was Steve’s fragile immune system. 

All those years ago, Bucky had moved in with Steve against his parents’ wishes. He’d walked away from his family— from the financial stability of their business— to work long shifts at the docks. (Bucky assured him over and over that he _never_ would have had it any other way.) Even so, all of their problems in the past seemed so insignificant compared to what they were facing now. 

Steve opened the door for Bucky to step inside first, giving him time to acclimate to his surroundings on his own. When he closed the door behind them, Bucky looked around cautiously.

“Can you lock it?” Bucky asked. Steve did. Steve would do whatever made Bucky feel safer. 

The struggle came with trying to determine where to give Bucky his independence back and where to guide him. He wasn’t incapable, but Steve had been witness to his worrying lack of self-preservation.

(Steve wondered if he would have rather covered the windows in newspapers and  _ hidden _ like in Romania.)

Steve felt like he was tiptoeing. He was terrified he’d say the wrong thing or breathe in the wrong direction and set Bucky off. (It wasn’t Bucky's fault, he couldn’t blame him. He would never blame him.) 

He hoped once the newness of everything wore off—once the situation was less  _ jarring _ —Bucky could start to heal.

Once Bucky had gotten the chance to look around, Steve asked him if he wanted to get cleaned up, showing him which direction to pull the faucet for a shower. 

The problem, which became apparent in this moment, was that Bucky didn’t know what to do with freedom; never felt worthy of it. After about 20 minutes, Steve knocked on the door, fresh towels in hand. When he didn’t get a response, a sharp fear settled into the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t hear anything, actually. The shower wasn’t on. 

“Buck? Buck I’m coming in,” He paused for a moment, expecting protest —hoping for it, even,—but was met with silence.

“God dammit,” he hissed under his breath, pushing through the door, which had fortunately been left unlocked. (Not that he wouldn't have broken it down.) He had mentally run through all the worst case scenarios in .5 seconds. What if Bucky had sliced his wrist open in the bathtub with something sharp Steve had overlooked? What if Bucky was ready to attack, having lost himself to the Soldier again? What if Bucky was just  _ gone _ , maybe he'd snuck out the front when Steve’s back was turned? 

None of those things were what he saw in front of him. Nothing had  _ really  _ prepared him for this. 

First, Steve saw the hoodie and jeans discarded on the floor; nearly tripped over Bucky sneakers. 

Next, he saw Bucky submerged up to his chest, hands gripping the sides of the tub hard enough that his knuckles were white, eyes glazed over and trained straight ahead, unblinking. It was obvious that he couldn’t even see Steve. He was a million miles away.

“Hey pal. You okay?” Steve kept the fear out of his voice, swallowed it down. Bucky was shivering, chest heaving. Steve felt almost like he had to look away, not because Bucky was naked, but because of how jarring it was to see him like _ this.  _ He was scarred; thick pink lines marred his left shoulder and radiated down his torso. (Steve had seen the scars before, but they were still painful to look at.) More concerning, though, was the sharpness of Bucky's collarbone; the way his ribs strained under his skin. It was one thing  _ hearing  _ from Stark that Bucky had consistently been refusing food. It was another thing entirely to  _ see  _ the outcome. Bucky was, fearfully, more gaunt than he’d been even when they were starving during the Depression.)

“Jesus Christ, you’re  _ freezing _ ,” Steve mumbled. The water was ice cold. It was a shock to the system to reach in and pull Bucky out, soaking himself and the tiled floor in the process. Hurriedly, Steve wrapped a towel around shaking shoulders.  _ Of course  _ Bucky would seek out the cold; the pain. It was the only thing he was comfortable with. It was the only thing he knew.

Steve felt like an idiot. He wished Sam was there to tell him what to do —how to work through the trauma. Clearly in over his head, Steve would have to call him later.

As the sorry pair sat together on the ledge of the tub, panic eased as steadily as the water drained. It was replaced by the regularly scheduled concern that had been ever present for the last few months. ( _ Years.)  _ They stayed that way for a few minutes while Steve came down from the adrenaline and Bucky came back to him, becoming more coherent and aware of his surroundings. The tension in Steve’s shoulders was almost unbearable as he watched Bucky’s face.

“Steve?” Bucky’s teeth chattered.

Relief shot through Steve, down to the tips of his fingers like static. “Yeah, it’s me. Are you back with me?”

No answer. 

“Can you tell me something you remember?” Steve pulled the towel more snugly around Bucky’s trembling shoulders in a futile attempt to warm him, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

The silence hurt, but Steve was more than willing to give Bucky all the time he needed.

“Our roof leaked. The ceiling. When we lived on the top floor of that shitty apartment in Brooklyn. And I always worried you’d get sick again. Was that real?” Speaking slowly, Bucky wanted to get the details straight.

“Yeah, Buck. That was real,” Steve promised.

“‘m not always sure what is.” Bucky curled in on himself, clutched at the hem of the towel.

Steve wanted to rest a hand on his back, but was afraid to touch him. The bottom line was that it didn’t matter what he himself wanted. He wouldn’t do it because Bucky hadn’t had any choices in 70 goddamn years. He wouldn’t  _ touch _ Bucky until  _ Bucky  _ said he could.

”Why did you do that?” Steve should have been more careful, paid more attention. He should have done a lot of things differently. 

“Wanted to feel something.” Bucky looked completely lost, expression vacant. “Wanted it to hurt.”

How could Steve have let this happen? He’d only been in charge of Bucky’s well-being for 2 seconds and he’d already fucked it up. “Bucky, I’m not.. You can’t do shit like that. I’m not letting you hurt yourself. Let me see your hands—”

Bucky, with no hesitation, held out both hands, palms up, wrists bared like he expected to be bound or restrained. He kept his eyes locked with Steve’s.

“No! That’s not what I meant,” Steve didn’t mean to sound so abrupt, he was just startled. In response, there was a flash of fear on Bucky’s face like he assumed he’d be hit for doing something wrong. It was gone so quickly, Steve might have missed it if he wasn’t so observant. 

He felt like crying. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Steve didn’t know what else to say. All he could do was remind Bucky that he was safe now; that Steve wasn’t ever going to hurt him, that they’d get through this together. 

Bucky stared at him again. If only for a flicker of a moment, Steve could see the same trust he’d gotten all those years ago when they were school children about to break the rules and he’d promised they wouldn’t get caught. 

Turning the tap back on, Steve let the tub fill with warm water. He held out his hand for Bucky’s. A timid hand in Steve's open palm, allowing him to hold it under the faucet to test the temperature. A flutter of lashes on tired eyes.

“Better?” 

“That feels okay.” (Although, Bucky wasn’t really sure there was much of a difference.) 

These were small victories, but to Steve, getting Bucky back to the point of talking and trusting him felt monumental.

“Are you gonna be okay in here?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky nodded, a frantic little bob of the head that sent water droplets onto Steve's already wet sleeve. 

“ _ Promise?”  _ Steve pressed.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be just in the other room, yell for me if you need anything.” Steve closed the door behind him, a gust of breath leaving his lungs.

After changing out of his wet clothes, he went back to making lunch, but not before turning the record player on to a Duke Ellington album. Bucky used to love music. (Hopefully he still did.)

Ten minutes later, after deciding it was safe, Bucky followed the noise to the kitchen. His head hurt; he felt heavy—like he was sleep walking. The music though— the music was nice.

Bucky made his way to the record player with still-damp hair, dressed in a warm forest green cable-knit and a pair of light denim Levi’s— some of the new clothes Steve had bought for him. He’d picked out quite a few sweaters for Bucky because winter was encroaching on New York. (But also because Steve loved a good sweater. Bucky joked that it was because he was a grandpa.) 

The record player looked so familiar. So  _ achingly  _ familiar. “Where’d ya get this, Stevie? It’s just like..It even has the same scratch on the side..” he trailed off. 

Steve chuckled. “The Smithsonian.”

“What?!”

“It was  _ mine,  _ Buck. Technically, they stole it from us.” Steve leaned against the counter. They’d taken a lot from him, actually; used him as a puppet when all he wanted was to be a soldier. He deserved his goddamn record player back. 

“Jeez I can't believe the golden boy’s a  _ real  _ criminal now,” Bucky joked, placing an album cover back down gently. 

As if a majority of Steve’s career hadn’t been spent disobeying direct orders. “Yeah, once you commit treason it’s basically all downhill from there. Not so golden anymore.”

“I guess that makes two of us,” Bucky remarked, looking around at other knick knacks on the dark wood shelves. 

Steve counted the smirk he received as another small victory. He emptied a box of spaghetti into the boiling water on the stove, hoping lunch wouldn’t turn into a fight. But Bucky eating today wasn’t something he was willing to compromise on. Watching Bucky across the room looking through his books, his albums, Steve caught himself staring. His chest  _ ached _ with  _ fondness _ . 

Steve fidgeted with the cardboard box in his hands. He wasn’t under the delusion that things weren’t going to be hard, or that Bucky would  _ snap out of it _ . But whatever happened, he’d be there.

Maybe they’d be okay.

It was a moment before Bucky spoke again, nervous and unsure of himself. “That dame. The blonde,” Bucky paused, fingers trailing over pictures of the Howlin’ Commandos, of Peggy, of him and Steve together. “You ever call her back?”

When Bucky turned to look at him, Steve hurried to make himself seem busy. He almost burned himself on the pot of tomato sauce he was stirring in the process. He did his best to play it off with an “Um, no. I didn’t.”

“She seemed nice,” Bucky bit at the back of his bottom lip. 

“Yeah, well. She’s not really my type,” Steve could almost hear himself teasing Nat when she’d tried to set him up with women. He told her he wasn’t  _ ready _ for all that, that work kept him too busy. He had laughed that it was kind of  _ difficult _ for him to find someone with shared life experiences. (In all honesty, Steve knew exactly which life experiences he’d meant.)

Bucky turned away to hide his smile.

Lunch  _ thankfully _ didn’t turn into a fight, though Bucky didn’t have much of an appetite to speak of. He tried because Steve was compassionate and  _ encouraging _ . He  _ tried.  _

*

Overall, it was an accumulation of little details that shattered Steve’s heart entirely within the first few days of Bucky being home. (Honestly, these things might even have been trival to anyone but Steve.)

It was the flightiness; his tendency to look around him for a way out. It was the way he forgot he was supposed to  _ eat _ even though he should have been starving with his metabolism. Steve had to watch him; remind him. It was the way he wouldn’t stand in front of windows or doors. It was the way that Bucky  _ never  _ relaxed— He’d either be curled in on himself like a cornered animal or tensed like he was ready to fight. (On one particularly bad day, he was standing at parade rest awaiting orders.)

God, it  _ hurt, it hurt, it hurt.  _

Steve’s inability to sleep the first few nights brought with it an exhaustion that lingered deep in his bones. What the serum gave him in enhanced energy, it took from him exponentially. When he crashed, he crashed hard. He’d situated himself in the living room between the room he’d given up to Bucky and the front door. In the state between dreaming and awake, he’d bolt upright whenever there was a creak or bump. 

About a week into their sleeping arrangement, the bedroom door opened at around 2 AM.

Steve shot to his feet, gauging the distance between himself and his shield —the new one; a gift from T’challa— tucked away in the coat closet. “What’s wrong?”

It took Bucky a few moments to process the situation; to try to remember why he’d gotten up in the first place. He didn’t  _ know _ what was wrong, but he did know that it felt like  _ shit _ waking Steve. The panic on Steve’s face was a sucker-punch to the stomach.

“Room’s too empty,” he decided. It sounded a hell of alot better than ‘ _ I don’t feel safe, I’m not safe.'  _ Bucky wanted to sink down into the floor. Instead, he turned the tv on with the volume low for white noise; he couldn’t bear to keep listening to his own thoughts. 

Steve figured the couch would be more comfortable for him, so with no hesitation, he switched and took the armchair instead, ignoring Bucky's protest. It was agonizing, staring at Bucky across the living room, curled up to make himself smaller, the flickering light of the screen illuminating the softness of his features. It  _ hurt,  _ but Steve couldn’t close his eyes to it.

Steve had read that they’d kept him awake for weeks at a time. He wondered if Bucky could even recognize the feeling of fatigue, if he even had the instinct to sleep anymore. Did he feel the same heaviness as Steve did; the same ache in his bones that told him his soul was eons older than his body? Maybe he was just mimicking Steve’s actions. 

“Sleep, Buck. I’ve got you,” Steve stayed up until Bucky drifted off.

  
  


One of Bucky’s worst dreams went like this:

He saw Pierce close to his face, felt a backhand crack against his cheek. He heard Pierce demand, ‘ _ Mission report.’  _ And  _ no no no he wouldn’t speak.  _ He bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. If he opened his mouth he knew he’d say the man on the bridge was alive, that he’d failed. 

He couldn’t be sent to kill him again no no no no. He wouldn’t kill this person, he’d rather  _ die _ . And he didn’t even know why. Pierce could beat him all he liked but he  _ wouldn’t do it.  _ They said he was unstable. Bucky braced for the pain. He heard Pierce’s cloying voice —speaking as if to a child— saying what a  _ gift  _ he was to humanity, how  _ good  _ he’d been. Pierce leaned forward to speak against his ear. Hands on Bucky’s thighs made him feel sick but he couldn’t move. 

And then he was being put under as electricity ripped through him, and all he could think was that he needed to  _ remember this, it was important, but it was slipping away.  _

Suddenly, there were gunshots; he was back in the war. The man from the bridge —Steve,  _ —  _ was there with him, dressed in stars and stripes, but it feels like a trick. They’d tricked him before. Steve was  _ bleeding.  _ Dark, wet crimson blossomed from his abdomen. Bucky looked down and saw he was holding the fucking knife. There was blood on the ground, blood on his  _ hands  _ and Steve’s eyes were  _ losing light _ . Before he could speak, or  _ scream, or get to Steve,  _ the ground opened up and he was falling down, down, down. And everything was  _ white _ like snow but he felt like he was on  _ fire _ .

Bucky jolted awake, screaming his throat raw, and for a second he didn’t recognize the room he was in. The couch cushions underneath him felt too soft. He dug his fingernails into his palm trying to understand what was happening. The man from the bridge was crouched beside him, soothing him, calling him “Bucky,” and that’s right. He was Bucky. And this was the  _ real _ Steve. Steve, his best friend. Steve, whom he’d known his whole life.  _ His  _ Steve, who brought him back, who’d given up his shield for him. He was  _ safe  _ here.

The living room was just bright enough from the television and the city lights outside the windows for Bucky to make out pinched worry in Steve’s features. His hand hovered over Bucky’s shoulder like he wanted to touch him, but he didn’t. The only sounds were the infomercial playing on the tv, muffled traffic from far below and a quiet ticking of a clock somewhere in the apartment. (Steve liked analog things, he had learned.) The steadiness of it all was a comfort. 

“Pierce is dead, right? He’s dead?” Bucky had to take a moment to catch his breath. 

“Yeah. He’s dead,” Steve promised. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Positive.” Steve thought he wished he’d known earlier what Pierce had done— wished he could have pulled the trigger him-goddamn-self. “Do you want to talk about it?” (He always asked, even though he knew the answer was never going to be yes.)

“No,” Bucky rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands and tried really hard to believe that he was okay. He didn’t fall back asleep, but he pretended until he heard the change in Steve’s breath.

*

Sometimes the look in Bucky’s eyes was so intense Steve was afraid he was planning the quickest way to kill him — but even that didn’t match the pure hatred with which Bucky looked at himself. There were times Steve would catch him in front of the mirror, shirtless, as if realizing for the first time that he had a body; that he existed in space. He stared at the expansive scarring on his shoulder where metal met with flesh, disgusted. Steve would see him  _ glaring  _ down at his hands, like all the blood he’d spilled still stained them. Steve wanted to  _ hold them. _

Bucky felt like a goddamn monster, even though Steve had told him over and over that he  _ wasn’t _ . He wanted to tear at his own skin. (He  _ did  _ on a few occasions, but he wouldn’t let Steve see the aftermath.)

So, Steve tried his best to be a distraction, catching Bucky up on things he had missed. Steve was by no means an  _ expert _ on reassimilating a prisoner of war into society. He only knew what had helped him after coming out of the ice. 

In Wakanda, Bucky had learned a lot about the modern day, but somehow no one had bothered to tell him about the moon landing. (Steve knew the feeling.)

Bucky  _ actually _ teared up when he heard. He couldn’t believe they’d done it. He couldn’t believe that nobody had  _ told  _ him. He’d witnessed technology used for so many evil things, and seeing something so incredible come from it overwhelmed him— discovery purely for discovery’s sake. Amazingly, Bucky loved science as much now as he had when he’d dragged Steve along to the Stark exhibition.

Steve got him science books, art books, a Hebrew prayer book that would hopefully bring back some memories. Little by little, Bucky did start to remember. It was a frustrating process, but he was perseverant. Steve told him as much, brimming with pride—that the headstrong resilience he’d had in his old life would have been amplified by the serum along with everything else. 

(Bucky hoped that was true.)

Steve couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot.

By far Bucky’s favorite thing was the music from the decades he’d missed. He’d  _ always _ loved music. He liked Queen— Steve played him the album while he laid on the floor looking through records. Although, it had turned into him introducing  _ Steve  _ to his more updated music library. (Shuri had shown him the Killers in Wakanda. He’d fallen in  _ love.)  _

Nights were a different story. Nights were spent trying to keep Bucky’s mind occupied while his thoughts were dangerous. Nights were spent talking Bucky down from the metaphorical ledge when his guilt and self-hatred got the better of him. (And once, the not-so-metaphorical ledge, coaxing him inside off the balcony.)

Nights were spent being woken up by screaming if he could convince Bucky to sleep. (Even if it was still in the living room. Even though he’d insisted on trading Steve for the armchair. Steve didn’t go back to his bed.) 

He wasn’t stupid enough to touch Bucky when he got like this, but not quite practical enough to leave him alone either. No, Steve would always come running. Even if it ended with a broken nose. (And it had, once. Bucky was devastated when he realized what he’d done.) 

They watched a lot of Netflix. Bucky wanted to see  _ everything.  _ He tried to rationalize it as being hungry for knowledge, which was something that had always been in his character. Bucky was still smart as a whip, he just had trouble with recall sometimes.

Steve knew, though, that it bothered Bucky deeply to have missed out on so much.

On good days, Bucky made dumb jokes and watered the plants. On good days Steve could trust him alone for a few hours. There were enough security precautions in place, he  _ tried  _ not to worry. 

Bucky had stumbled upon the Captain America documentary while Steve had been out getting groceries. (What he was  _ looking  _ for were those embarrassing PSA’s.) Steve had mentioned before that the movie was overdramatized garbage, that he shouldn’t waste his time trying to sit through it. But Bucky’s curiosity had won out in the end.

He’d been hoping it would have filled in some of the blanks, but wasn’t necessarily prepared to see himself portrayed on the screen. The producers had gotten some battles’ details wrong, and Bucky was proud of himself for remembering the real order of events. Overall, though, it was accurate enough to make him  _ feel  _ something—more specifically, a pang where his heart used to be watching himself fight beside Steve. Even though the actor didn’t nearly do his friend justice. (Eyes weren’t the same shade of blue; smile wasn’t quite right.) 

The aching in Bucky’s chest reminded him that he had been  _ good  _ once; a different soldier fighting for a different cause. He saw the train, saw himself ‘dying’, pinpointed the exact moment everything had gotten so incredibly fucked up. (It was strange that his life was public record.) Even after all of that, what happened next was unexpected. 

Steve had mentioned the ice before. Never said he’d put  _ himself _ there. For all intents and purposes, it  _ looked  _ like an accident. Bucky knew better.

Bucky wouldn’t speak to Steve when he came home. At first, Steve was sure Bucky was slipping again, which felt like a knife to the heart after all the progress they had made. After a few failed attempts at getting Bucky to acknowledge him, Steve came to the uneasy realization that he was  _ pissed.  _ His shoulders were tenser than usual, his jaw clenched and unclenched like it used to when he was a punk ass kid itching to get in a fight.

Everything culminated when Bucky disappeared into the room Steve had converted into a gym. (Albeit, a sorry excuse for one. There was only a limited amount of equipment that remained. Bucky was, after all, still a danger to himself and others.) 

He was still getting used to the safety precautions Steve had tried to instill in him. Hydra certainly hadn’t been concerned with his wellbeing, and old habits were hard to break. However, angry as he was, he taped up his hand like Steve had shown him before he started in on the worn punching bag.

It was an hour later that Steve found him. Breaking a sweat, but not even close to pushing his body’s limits. 

“Hey pal, did my punching bag take your lunch money or something?” Steve joked, wary, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. It was the same apprehensively jovial tone he’d used when he’d teased Bucky for ‘snapping his cap’ in the schoolyard.

Bucky shook his head, not laughing. Blood seeped through the tape on his human hand and pooled between his knuckles.

“Jesus, buddy. You’re gonna hurt yourself,” Steve cautioned, coming up behind him carefully.

“ _ I’m _ gonna hurt myself? Fuck you, Steve,” Bucky spat. 

And, okay, that one stung. “What is your  _ problem _ ?”

“Fucking fight me. Right now. Let’s go,” Bucky rounded on him, like how they used to spar during the war. Neither one of them would actually  _ hurt  _ the other; but now Bucky felt like maybe he was hoping to get knocked out.

He just felt  _ everything  _ — everything he’d been trying so  _ hard _ to suppress since 1940. ‘ _ Steve, let's move in together. Steve, we can put the couch cushions beside my bed like when we were kids. Steve, I’m not going anywhere without you. Steve, you’re all I have. Steve, if I can’t get out of this Nazi lab after being brutally tortured for months, I guess I’ll just die with you.’  _ He felt like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Steve took a step backward, trying to de-escalate the situation. It wasn’t that he thought Bucky was at risk of letting the Soldier take over again; he seemed more present and himself than he had for a while. 

Bucky was already squared up to him on the mat. “Let’s go punk, I’m serious.” 

“I’m not gonna fight you, Buck,” Steve scoffed. If he wasn’t going to fight Bucky to save his own life all that time ago— if he was prepared to let Bucky  _ finish _ it rather than raise a hand to him — Steve certainly wasn’t going to fight him now.

So, if Bucky needed to take this out on him— well then, that was okay.

“ _ Get angry,  _ Steve. Fucking hit me. Why won’t you  _ fight back?”  _ Voice nearly a howl, Bucky took a swing. He’d been  _ swallowed  _ by something buried so deep down in his soul— scared, lost and  _ tired. _

Steve blocked him, bringing his fists up to protect his face out of reflex more than anything else. Bucky threw another, and another, but it was glaringly obvious he wasn’t putting any real effort behind it. 

“I’m not going to fight you,” Steve blocked three more blows.

“You don’t get to tiptoe around me, to put me in a baby-proof box, Captain Death Wish. You crashed your  _ FUCKING _ plane into the Arctic.”

_ Oh. _

“That.. was an accident,” Steve answered automatically, like he’d practiced whenever anyone asked about the incident. It sounded hollow and tinny even to his own ears. 

Unsatisfied with the answer, Bucky pulled him close by the collar of his shirt until they were chest to chest. He was afraid that if he looked at Steve too long his tough-guy façade would crumble to ash. 

He wasn’t angry at Steve; not really. He was angry that he felt like crying. He was angry that he couldn’t form his feelings into words. He was angry that Steve wouldn’t just  _ hit him back.  _ More importantly, though, he was angry about how violent he’d become; about what kind of person that made him. Bucky was becoming everything he hated.

“Is that what we’re callin’ it? You look me in the fucking eyes and tell me there was no other option,” Bucky said, the edge in his voice. One look at Steve’s panicked expression and he was 15 again, lying to his parents, walking through the rough part of town to find refuge at Steve’s apartment. He was 16, breaking a kid’s nose for roughhousing Steve after school, even though he knew Steve didn’t  _ need  _ him to stand up for him. He was 17, arriving at the conclusion that there was absolutely no way back from how he felt— that his family could take everything else from him, but they couldn’t take Steve. They could never have Steve. 

Steve couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lie to him. He was shit at lying, yes, but Bucky, whose eyes were dark with rage and something deeper, had always been able to see right through him. Steve couldn’t pretend he hadn’t been relieved plunging into the icy water; that he hadn’t found comfort in the frigid darkness as he sank down. It was still there, behind his eyes if he thought too much about it.

He hadn’t admitted it out loud, well, ever. He wanted to deny it, to move on. But Bucky hadn’t ever been the type to let things go. So, through the fear his voice would shake, Steve leveled his eyes with Bucky’s and told him the truth. 

“I thought I was coming home to you,” Steve said. 

Steve was sure Bucky would be there at the end of the line, like the North Star. Bucky was lights on a dark ocean— a  _ beacon.  _ Steve hoped he was the man Erskine thought he was. He hoped he’d done enough with his life; that St. Peter wouldn’t turn him away at the gates. Because if there was a place to rest on the other side reserved for  _ the very best  _ of people, Bucky would surely be there waiting. In death, at least, they could be together.

Bucky’s eyes searched his face, softening. Steve couldn’t place the emotion he saw there. Bucky backed down at that point, with a final shove, ripping the tape off his human fingers. He stormed out of the room and locked himself in his, (Steve’s), bedroom. 

Steve punched the bag, sending it flying. He knew Bucky was angry and  _ hurt.  _ He knew Bucky only knew how to work through his emotions violently. Regardless, Steve couldn’t drown out Bucky’s voice in the back of his head, ‘ _ get angry, Steve. Fucking hit me.’ _

He didn’t bring up Bucky’s suicide attempts. It wouldn't have been fair, or the right way to talk about it. 

God knew he understood. 

Steve remembered how devastated he had been after the Fall. He could have gone  _ wherever  _ to mourn Bucky. Still, he found himself in the bombed out pub, drinking alcohol he wished could have gotten him drunk. Because it was there that Bucky promised to follow him anywhere. And it was there that Steve decided he’d follow Bucky anywhere, too.

But now, he didn’t know what to say that would make it better. That he didn’t die in ‘45 when he was supposed to and neither did Bucky? That they were both here now and that was all that really mattered? That they got to try again in a new century? That was horribly cliché. It was also the truth. 

It was difficult for him to let Bucky cool off for a few days. He wouldn’t come out even to eat. Steve would leave snacks outside the door, but they’d go untouched. It scared him shitless. But he did it— he kept his distance, slept on the couch and gave Bucky space to breathe.

Bucky had taken to sitting in the empty bathtub fully clothed because it reminded him of being in cryo. When he’d lay in bed, sleep wouldn’t visit often. He wished he could start collecting knives again, like he did in Romania. He used to sharpen them to cope with the constant uneasiness of looking over his shoulder. Having them made him feel  _ safer.  _ He tried to meditate, repeating over and over ‘your name is Bucky, it’s 2017.’

Steve never saw any of this.

Trying not to think about what he’d done felt  _ selfish.  _ Bucky needed to remember it, to  _ feel  _ it. The isolation brought things to the forefront of his mind he had hoped never to see again. Hearing that Steve crashed the Valkyrie  _ purposely  _ resurrected Bucky’s overwhelming  _ instinctual  _ fear of Steve leaving _.  _

_ Once, when he was 18 and Steve was 17, Steve was sicker than he’d been in a very long time. His fever wasn’t breaking and it wasn’t looking good. Bucky stayed at his bedside, regardless of whether Steve was contagious. ‘Don’t leave me, Stevie. Don’t go. You’re all I have,’ Bucky teared up, cupping Steve’s clammy cheek. He was so fucking scared, but he did his best to keep it together. _

_ ‘Stop your cryin’, I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Steve croaked, smiling up at Bucky through the pain. His laugh sounded like glass rattling in his chest; he started to cough. Hand on Steve’s back, Bucky helped him sit up to drink some water.  _

_ Bucky remembered his father mocking him once, before he’d left. He’d said that Bucky should have picked a different friend, that this one wouldn’t survive to adulthood— that this one was weak. Bucky’s response was that Steve was not fucking weak.  _

_ He traced the constellation of freckles on Steve’s cheek as he slept. Bucky wasn’t even a particularly religious person, but he’d been raised Jewish. The way Steve’s shoulders trembled had him praying to any god he could think of, bartering with his own life.  _

_ Steve would be okay. There was no ‘or’. There was nothing else. _

It hurt, remembering how often Steve would flirt with death. It  _ hurt  _ and there was no catharsis. There was no ending, no solace found in sleep. 

The only person that could make it any better was the person he was shutting out.

Truthfully, Bucky wanted to come out after the first few hours. But he’d never been good with apologies, and he knew Steve deserved one. His head felt like it was full of cotton and he didn’t  _ understand  _ why the idea of disappointing Steve for the millionth time made him so fucking  _ sad.  _ So he didn’t.

  
  
  


Steve went out one morning when he was sure Bucky was actually asleep in bed, asking Friday to alert him if anything happened. There were more than enough safety precautions in place. Still, he worried. But this was something he needed to do; something he wished he would have had the means to do decades ago. 

He came home hours later, tossing the keys to his motorcycle onto the kitchen counter, a package from an antique shop nearly burning a hole in his pocket. 

Calling around to nearly every place in all 5 boroughs and, begrudgingly, even New Jersey, had taken forever, but he finally found what he was looking for. (And if Steve started making those calls the second Bucky was cleared to come back from Wakanda, that was nobody’s business but his.)

Late into the evening, Bucky came out of his hideaway and Steve felt like he could breathe again. (And, simultaneously, like the floor was giving way beneath him.) The kitchen island acted as a buffer, keeping the uneasy space between them. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve cracked first like he always had. (When things were his fault, but especially when they weren’t.) “I fucked up. I shouldn’t have crashed. It was stupid and impulsive and yeah, it was intensional. But I thought you were fucking dead and I had nothing else. I was so tired, Buck. And you know what? If everything that’s happened is the consequence, I’d do it all over again.”

It felt like they were confessing now. It felt sacred, like the ground beneath them was made holy.

Bucky was quiet. God, he was always so quiet. Even down to how he moved, how he  _ breathed _ . He picked at the scabs on his knuckles. Steve figured that they should have healed by now if Bucky would just stop  _ doing  _ that.

“No. I’m sorry, Stevie. For how I’m acting. I— nothing justifies it. I don’t know how to talk about things, but I’m tryin’,” Bucky said, letting out a breath, relieved that Steve wasn’t going to ream him out even though he had every right to. He almost wished Steve would yell at him. He wasn’t accustomed to all this kindness. (He didn’t deserve it.)

“I’ve always hated how reckless you can be,” Bucky said. (Steve was always picking fights with kids bigger than him. Running headfirst into enemy fire, acting invincible. It scared the  _ shit  _ out of Bucky in a way nothing else really ever had.) “You know that.” 

Steve looked away. He  _ did  _ know that. He knew he was audacious to a fault. He’d been told off enough times for stupidly making calls that put himself in needless danger. (Long ago it was Bucky chastising him. These days it was usually Natasha.)

Bucky’s heart was hammering in his chest when he continued, “felt like…” he had trouble with the  _ names  _ of feelings. Comparisons were better — made more sense. He tried again. “Felt like when I had to find out you jumped on a dummy grenade from Peggy fucking Carter.” Trying to place the  _ emotion  _ that correlated with, all he could come up with was  _ hurt. It hurt. _

Steve opened his mouth to respond, hand going reflexively to the back of his head, feeling almost a ghost of the smack Bucky gave him in the 40’s. Peggy had been so  _ proud _ of him. 

Bucky had been  _ livid. _

“I ain’t mad at ya, Stevie. Wish you woulda told me,” Bucky said, pulling at the hem of his shirt. But he understood. He did. This was heavy. This was devastating to talk about. 

“I was — when you were gone it felt like I was dyin’. And then I guess I did. I get it, Buck, I worry about you too,” Steve said. ‘ _ I love you, I love you,’  _ was almost out of his mouth, but he bit his lip —hard— and swallowed it back down. 

And then it clicked. “You read it,” Bucky said. It wasn’t an accusation, just a fact. “Whatever they kept on record about me.”

“I did,” Steve admitted, biting his lip.

Bucky felt  _ stupid  _ for lashing out. He felt  _ cruel  _ for letting Steve get mixed up in the fucking tragedy that was his life.  _ Steve shouldn’t have had to hear about any of it. _ Did that make Bucky a hypocrite? He would do better. 

Steve was watching Bucky so carefully. Something flickered across Bucky’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Resting his hands on the counter, Steve leaned forward, bracing himself to say  _ something.  _ He just wasn’t sure what.

Bucky beat him to it, though, looking away and setting his jaw. “I don’t regret tryna get out,” he said, hot all over,  _ embarrassed _ having Steve know what he’d endured and how  _ weak  _ he had been. It felt like being naked in front of him. (It was  _ worse  _ than being naked in front of Steve. It felt like being stripped down to his soul.) 

Steve wanted to say so much. He wanted to say that he understood. That he wished to God he could have been there to stop it. That he blamed himself every single day, even if Bucky never would. He wanted to say ‘stay with me now, doll, you’ll be safe here.’ But it wasn’t that easy. Nothing with them had ever been easy. So he settled for “I know.”

“There are things I should have told you,” Bucky admitted. “I’m sorry,” he turned to leave again, feeling unworthy of the compassion in Steve’s voice. His tether to shore had been cut and he was drifting out to sea— like a rip current had knocked his feet out from under him. 

“Wait, I have something for you,” Steve set the small box from the antique store on the kitchen island between them and nervously scratched at the stubble on his cheek.

Bucky stared at the box, but didn’t make a move toward it until Steve articulated that he was allowed to open it.

Inside was an old-fashioned silver chain, delicate but sturdy enough to have withstood the years. The pendant was a thumbnail sized Star of David. Bucky’s momentary confusion turned to recognition, his mouth falling open.

“I know it’s not exactly like the one you pawned before the war, but it’s close. I never wanted you to get rid of it,” Steve explained. 

“We had to eat, Stevie,” Bucky’s voice cracked and he wouldn’t look up.

“I know. I just wish you wouldn’t have had to make that choice,” Steve wished he could have done more to help besides drawing for the paper. He wished Bucky's parents hadn’t kicked him out. He wished a lot of things.

“Thank you. I ain’t sure what to say,” There was a heaviness, a melancholy that accompanied his words. Everything was so consistently bittersweet between them. 

“You don’t have to say anything. Can I put it on you?” Steve asked.

In response, Bucky turned around and held his hair out of the way to let Steve clasp the chain behind his neck. His guard was down enough to turn his back to somebody. Heart in his throat, Steve counted that as a win. 

(Bucky didn’t go back to Steve’s room that evening, instead, he fell asleep watching TV. They didn’t talk about it.)

Bucky still kept a pack of cigarettes in his bag. He’d picked smoking back up in Romania. Rationing them, as he was used to rationing a lot of things, he’d only opened the pack when he couldn’t calm himself down enough to sleep — which was, regrettably, more common than he’d care to admit. The nicotine didn’t really affect him anymore, but he needed something to do with his hands besides picking at his cuticles until they bled. 

Tiptoeing around Steve sleeping on the couch, Bucky crept over to the window seat. 

Bucky clicked his lighter to light his cigarette and blew smoke up into the night sky through the cracked open window. The freezing air should have stung his skin but he only felt blunt numbness. Pulling at a loose string on the hem of his sweatpants, he thought about holding his hand over a flame to see how much it would take to feel something  _ real.  _

Normally, he could ignore the tingling in his appendages— like static, feedback on a radio, like his limbs were asleep or  _ dead.  _ Right now, though, it was all he could think about. He had to stop. He had to focus on something else or he didn’t know what he would do. Taking another pull, Bucky gazing out into the darkness. 

Bucky wished there was less light pollution so he could see the stars. Back in the 30’s, he and Steve would climb up on the fire escape and look at the sky, lying on their backs, shoulder to shoulder. It was a lot clearer then, even in the city. They’d talk about their dreams and worst fears. They’d talk about growing old and space and science and god. They talked about if they’d ever be significant. (Those were some of his favorite memories. Bucky wished he could bottle them up, put them high on a shelf somewhere they’d be safer than in his head.) 

He clicked his lighter on again, watched it spark. Something moved in the dark behind him and coldness shot through him until he realized it was just Steve. 

“You know, those things cause asthma,” Steve said, sitting down across from him. Exhaling slowly, leaning back against the wall and pulling a knee up to his chest, Steve looked like the years he was outrunning were starting to catch up. It made Bucky wonder why no one fucking checked up on him when he came out of the ice. Steve deserved better. Steve deserved so much better. 

“They  _ what?”  _ Bucky’s eyes widened a fraction. 

“Yeah, and heart attacks, lung disease, cancer,” Steve listed. He reached out for the cigarette anyway, though. Lips pulled up at the corners, he took a long drag before handing it back. 

Bucky shook his head in disbelief. “Doctors  _ prescribed  _ you these,” he said. Steve had been on a plethora of treatments for asthma, mainly home remedies. There were  _ low  _ points when Bucky would have tried anything to help.

“They have anti-smoking PSA’s now. Made me do a couple when I thawed out,” Steve said. 

“Huh. Ain’t that some shit,” Bucky _ laughed  _ because everything was so fucking  _ ironic. _ Because the thing meant to save Steve would probably have killed him in the end, had things been different. Time was funny that way.

He laughed, covering his eyes with his hands.  _ He laughed,  _ airy and light, like his chest was full of helium and going to burst. When he was calm enough to breathe, though, his heart plummeted back to Earth. 

Steve was chuckling but his breath caught in a sob. He hastily wiped tears from his eyes with the pads of his thumbs.

“What did I do?” Bucky couldn’t understand what was wrong. Panicking, he catalogued everything he’d said trying to pinpoint his mistake. He was coming up empty.

“No, it’s just — I didn’t know if I’d ever hear you laugh again,” Steve murmured, misty-eyed.

Bucky’s mouth quirked up in the ghost of a smile, and he leaned the side of his head against the glass. “Don’t go tellin’ anyone. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Steve was  _ grinning  _ through the tears. Bucky couldn’t help but grin back, fighting the compulsion to dry his eyes. 

When Bucky had extinguished the cigarette on the windowsill, he nudged Steve’s knee with his. He supposed this is what being  _ human  _ was — rolling through the high-highs and low-lows of emotion as they came. 

Steve pulled his attention away from the sky outside the window, brow furrowed. His eyes looked tired, the bare skin of his chest pale and nearly pearlescent in the moonlight. Bucky would have been  _ distracted  _ on a good day, though he couldn’t help but notice the harsh contrast of the scars on Steve’s stomach and shoulder from a bullet and a blade respectively. 

“I did that. Didn’t I?” Bucky clenched his jaw as he asked, already sure of the answer. 

Steve didn’t respond. He considered lying; making some offhand comment about hazards of the job. The injuries could have been from any number of missions, his body held permanent evidence of  _ countless  _ fights. Bucky would have seen right through his excuses, though, the way he’d seen through Steve since the beginning of time. 

“I remember the helicarrier,” Bucky prompted quietly, seriously,  _ staring  _ at Steve. 

Steve supposed he couldn’t deny it now, so he gave a succinct nod. Unable to even look the man in front of him in the  _ face,  _ Steve looked down at his own hands instead. 

“Stevie,” Bucky felt overwhelmed and  _ guilty.  _ He had no idea why Steve would continue to sit here with him after everything — to take him in and  _ shelter  _ him and  _ care. _ “I’m so sor—”

He cut Bucky off, finally meeting his gaze. “Stop. I don’t blame you for that.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, trying to grasp the blurry pieces of memory before they dissipated like smoke. Maybe remembering in fragments was a blessing — else he’d crack under the weight. Maybe his psyche was continuing to protect itself. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

Steve flinched. “I couldn’t give up on you.” 

“ _ Why?” _

“I saw it in your face. You knew me. You were still you. You  _ are  _ still you. You’ve never been what they tried to make you,” Steve was resolute, but that was only part of the truth. The rest of it would have made him sound like he was out of his goddamn mind. 

Steve didn’t tell Bucky that he  _ wasn’t  _ sure. Saying he was convinced, for a time, that Bucky  _ didn’t  _ know him — couldn’t possibly have remembered him— would have made all of his actions that followed seem much less rational. 

He  _ didn’t say  _ he would have been more than willing to let Bucky kill him. That it could have gone one of two ways— either Bucky remembered him, which would have made the hell they’d gone through worth it,  _ or  _ Bucky bashed his skull in. That was okay, that was all okay, too. Steve would have died with a smile on his face.

And Bucky didn’t tell Steve he was right — that he’d asked about Steve after the day on the bridge because, for whatever reason, he couldn’t let it go. He didn’t say Hydra had put him through  _ hell _ for it — broken him over and over and over. But he had never forgotten Steve’s face. 

“I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to you,” Bucky clenched and unclenched his fists, listening to the soft creaking and whirring of his metal knuckles. His voice was low and gravelly. It felt like burning in his throat. “A couple inches to the right and I would have killed you.”

(Steve had never known Bucky to miss a shot.)

“Hey, can you look at me, pal?” Steve coaxed Bucky back to him. “You pulled me out of the water. We’ll call it even, okay?” He reasoned.

Steve had blurry images of being dragged out of the Potomac by a dark figure with a metal arm. He wasn’t even completely sure his concussed brain hadn’t hallucinated it at the time, but rationality didn’t stop him from holding that memory close to his heart as a comfort.

There in the shelter of the moment, Bucky’s silent nod said everything he needed. 

Bucky didn’t say how he could live 100 more lifetimes and he’d never have the means to recompense for what he had done. Having so much to atone for— especially to Steve, he didn’t know where to begin. He didn’t say how much he  _ loathed  _ himself; how he wished they’d throw him back in cryo or off the top floor of Avengers’ Tower. He didn’t say a lot of things, but he didn’t have to. Steve always seemed to just  _ understand  _ the implicit meaning underneath his silence. 

Instead of speaking, he reached out his fingertips and pressed them against the healed laceration on Steve’s shoulder. Bucky loved Steve. That was the truest, most  _ tangible  _ thing in his memory. He loved him like looking at the stars— it was beautiful, breathtaking, but  _ devastating  _ knowing he’d always be just a little too far away. Always just out of arm’s reach. 

Steve rested his palm overtop of Bucky’s hand; entwined their fingers. 

And that was enough. 

  
  


. 

Having a complicated relationship with displays of emotion, Bucky didn’t typically let himself cry in front of Steve. He  _ hated  _ how weak it made him feel. He’d press his metal palm harshly to his mouth to keep in the sound and, sometimes, he’d come away with bruises. 

Steve thought it stemmed not from Hydra’s torture, but from the way Bucky’s father vilified emotion— the way he criticized Bucky for never being  _ man  _ enough. Silence had been beaten into him far before the Fall.

On the rare instance Steve was witness to one of his panic attacks, Bucky pushed him away, opting to suffer alone because he felt he  _ deserved to.  _ Steve would have to look on from a distance, wishing he could do more to console Bucky as he came down. Steve  _ never  _ felt like he was doing enough.

But one particular occasion was far worse than any of the others. It was like a chasm opened up between them.

It was after a few more restless than usual nights. Bucky had been kept awake by the persistent feeling that someone was in the room, just behind the door, waiting to hurt him. If he squinted, figures gathered just outside of his peripheral vision— ones that looked suspiciously like Pierce with a saccharine politician’s smile. There were nightmares of hands around his neck, of chains at his feet. His heart never seemed to calm down. It pounded out of his chest for days.

(Steve could hear it.) 

The afternoon he’d reached his breaking point, the thread holding him together  _ snapped _ . Steve asked him a question and, startled, Bucky rounded on him, tensed to take down an enemy. It took a minute for him to get reoriented to his surroundings, to remember that Steve wasn’t a threat. Then came all the guilt. 

He’d almost grabbed Steve by the neck right there in the living room while The Simpson’s played on TV. He’d almost  _ hurt Steve  _ because he couldn’t get his stupid fucking brain to  _ focus.  _ Steve, whose eyes were wide. Steve who was shaken, guiding him by the hands to sit on the couch, trying to persuade him to speak. But Bucky’s ears were ringing. He could practically hear his handlers, ‘sir, he’s erratic. He’s not stable.’ 

Ready to completely lose it, Bucky felt entangled in the throes of another episode. He was slipping away; he could feel it. 

He was  _ fucking terrified. _

Steve had tried to prepare himself for something like this, but in practice, he did not know what to do. Watching Bucky so  _ carefully—  _ the way Bucky used to keep an eye on him— he could, normally, pinpoint some of Bucky’s triggers. Steve knew which loud noises made him jump, which words were off limits. Sometimes they could talk through it and he could keep Bucky coherent enough to stop him from slipping off the deep end. But this was  _ different;  _ he had no idea what had just happened.

“Tell me what’s wrong. Please,” Steve pleaded with him. Grabbing Bucky’s hands and trying desperately to pry them away from his mouth went against everything Steve wanted for him; went against the kind of person Steve wanted to  _ be  _ for him. He couldn’t stand to be someone else that handled him with force, but he couldn’t sit idly by and watch Bucky hurt himself either. “Breathe, Buck, breathe for me.”

Steve sat beside Bucky as he sobbed, reverting back to Russian. He wanted nothing more than to wrap Bucky in his arms, to prove he wouldn’t hurt him, but the jury was still out on whether or not that would have set him off.

It  _ burned  _ Steve down to his core that he would have been the first in decades to want to touch Bucky without  _ pain _ being the desired outcome. It wasn’t  _ fair  _ that even after all this time Hydra was  _ taking _ from him. 

Bucky reaching for his hand felt out of the realm of possibility until it  _ happened.  _ Steve was floored.

(Really, Bucky would have rather buried his face against Steve’s chest until the tears had passed, but he felt both too undeserving of comfort and too ashamed of needing it.)

For a horrifying moment, Bucky couldn’t process what was happening around him. He didn’t know where he was or how he had gotten there. He knew Steve was with him, but he was sure agents would be arriving any minute to prep him for a new mission. He wanted to tell Steve to run, that Hydra would kill him. A sinking feeling deep in his gut worried that Steve was there to hurt him too. 

He was spiraling. The one thing anchoring him— the familiarity to soothe his frayed nerves— was Steve’s hand in his. So he clung on for dear life. 

Bucky could almost taste the hard plastic they’d shove in his mouth to prevent him from biting off his tongue during electrocution. He could hear himself babbling, but couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop. 

So he did nothing but let Steve hold his hand, let the tremors wrack through him.

“I’m gonna call a friend. Okay? I can’t understand what you’re saying but she can,” Steve made a mental note to learn Russian as soon as possible.

When Natasha showed up 5 minutes later to assess the situation, she let herself into the apartment and kept her distance. Steve was grateful.

When Bucky’s fragmented pleas became punctuated with sobs, Natasha shook her head and said something calmly back to him in Russian. 

Nat composed herself quickly. “He’s saying he’s sorry. He asked me not to hurt him— not to hurt you. I told him not to apologize because it wasn’t his fault,” she explained.

Bucky sobbed deep in his chest and started repeating a phrase over and over. Steve looked at Nat, panicked, but her face was unreadable. 

“He’s saying, ‘ready to comply’. No,  _ l’vionachik _ , you’re safe. Do you remember me? I’m Natasha,” she spoke slowly, gingerly.

“You don’t have to comply with anything,” Steve murmured, running his thumb across Bucky’s knuckles.

Natasha’s cold exterior crumbled. This was too familiar. She, of all people, understood what it was like to be unable to get through to someone she cared about, for a friend to try to kill her.

In the same way that was Barton, that was Bucky, though the outcomes were different. (That had always been a point of contention between Steve and the rest of the team. Clint was welcomed back with open arms after he’d been brainwashed, but everyone was so reluctant to see Bucky as anything more than a criminal. It was infuriating.) 

But Bucky was  _ human. He was a victim.  _ Having no control over what had been done to him, who was he, if not the most innocent among them. 

“He’s saying he’s afraid he’s going to hurt someone. He’s already hurt you a hundred times over. He’s so angry at himself, at Hydra. He wants to feel the pain he deserves. He wishes he would have died,” Natasha translated.

Steve blinked and nearly missed her crossing the room to sit with them on the couch. She tucked Bucky’s head against her shoulder and stroked his hair going from pragmatic and reserved to talking him down like the Hulk. (In retrospect, it made sense. Nat had always loved broken things.)

Still reeling from how quickly her demeanor had changed, Steve was going to stop her—tell her that Bucky didn’t like to be touched. But Bucky's breathing was starting to even. 

“I asked. Don’t worry, I asked,” Natasha assured, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. Bucky looked so  _ young  _ and scared. “Rogers, talk to him about good things,” she instructed, giving him this look that said ‘I don’t care that he’s technically 100, he’s my son now,’ as she rubbed Bucky’s back.

“Buck, do you remember that time I got my ass kicked in the back alley of that movie theater. And behind the grocery store? You came and got me and held the ice, even though I complained the whole time. Do you remember those science magazines I saved up to get you for your birthday? You told me off for spending money on you, but you loved them,” Steve tried to keep the cadence of his voice low and even.

Bucky was quieter, listening. His shoulders had stopped shaking. His hand was still in Steve’s, his head still on Natasha’s shoulder. 

“Do you remember when we lied to your parents and snuck off to Coney Island?” Steve asked.

Bucky squeezed his hand.

“You’re safe. You’re gonna be okay,” Steve said as Bucky focused hazy ice blue eyes on him. “Are you back?” Steve breathed.

Bucky nodded, lips parted, dazed. He was looking up at Steve through wet eyelashes. Steve couldn’t understand what Nat was murmuring, but from the intonation it seemed to be pet names and reassurances. Whatever it was, it calmed Bucky down.

It was almost 2 hours before Nat left; trying to understand what had triggered the outburst took  _ time.  _ She was patient, gentle in a way she reserved for only her favorite people.

Steve had been friends with her long enough to see the unparalleled compassion she tried so hard to hide behind her cold façade. During Steve’s struggle to assimilate after the ice, no one had even bothered to ask if he was  _ okay.  _ He was  _ government property;  _ nothing else. Going through it completely alone was the hardest, loneliest experience he’d ever endured. All his friends were dead; he didn’t know a soul in the world, except Peggy. (But Peggy had  _ lived a life  _ that Steve had no right to interfere with.) 

_Natasha_ _asked_ , though, when they’d met. Not only did she encourage him to talk about his struggles, but she helped him get back out there. Even if her ideas to set him up with women were somewhat _misguided,_ she was well-intentioned. And that meant everything. No one else took an interest in his well being until Sam—2 years later.

When Bucky calmed himself down enough to feel the exhaustion, it was clear how much had been taken out of him. He wanted to rest his sore eyes; to sleep. He thanked Natasha for talking to him, and she told him not to hesitate to call her if he needed her again, having completely forgiven the times he’d shot her. She’d be there because Bucky deserved to have people on his side.

(At Steve’s quizzical glance, she said ‘ _ what?  _ I think it’s about time I made some friends.’) 

When he and Steve were alone, they stayed where they were. Bucky, drained and sad and unmotivated to move, eventually shifted, letting his head fall back against the couch. Truthfully, he didn’t know how much fight he had left in him. 

He slipped his hand from Steve’s in favor of laying it over his eyes, attempting to block out the throbbing in his head.

Their shoulders were flush against each other and Steve was afraid if he breathed too hard or made any shift in position, the moment would be gone.

“Your Ma tried to get me to call her Sarah, but it never stuck. Was always  _ Miss _ Sarah,” Bucky’s voice was croaky, strained. His cheeks were still blotched pink.

Steve smiled at the memory, eyes never leaving Bucky’s profile. “That’s right.”

“Nicest lady I ever knew.”

Steve hummed in agreement. His Ma never raised her voice at either of them, even when they were off causing more than their fair share of trouble. She always let Bucky stay the night when he turned up on their doorstep far later than he should have. Steve missed her. 

“You’re just like her,” Bucky said. Hand still over his eyes.

Steve was sure Bucky overestimated him. If his mother could see him now, he worried she’d be disappointed. But hearing that felt like a fist squeezing his heart just the same.

Steve changed the topic as gently as he could. “About what happened; I think you should talk to Sam. He helped me a lot. It’s easier to get through things when you talk about them—,” 

“I don’t need a goddamn head shrink,” Bucky answered sharply.

Pausing for a moment, trying not to let the sharpness in his voice hurt, Steve tried again. “ _ Please _ , Buck.” 

Bucky huffed, exasperated, and wiped his eyes on his black t-shirt. He intended to say, ‘ _ No chance in hell,’  _ to get up and walk away. But when he got a good look at Steve’s face, he found he had said, “okay. For you,” instead. 

_ God,  _ those eyes. Bucky had never been able to say no to those eyes— eyes the color of July. And he felt like Steve should know. 

“It’s your eyes, Stevie,” Bucky sighed.

“Hmm?” Steve cocked his head to the side.

“Your eyes never changed. Not after all the years or the serum. I remembered your eyes,” Bucky said quietly, reverently. 

Slowly, brow creased like he was trying to convince himself not to cry, Steve reached out a hand tucked a loose strand of Bucky's hair behind his ear.

Bucky clung on to Steve’s wrist, keeping his palm pressed to his face. Smoothing his thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone, Steve’s brain was on the brink of short-circuiting. 

Bucky wanted to stay there forever, or at least a little longer, but he was feeling restless again. Whatever reprieve he’d found was gone as quickly as it had come; Bucky retreated into the tub to sleep there. Instead of mentioning it, Steve brought him a pillow and blanket.

.

The next evening, after some  _ mild  _ begging, Sam came over. Steve was relieved to see him, even if Sam eyed him apprehensively from the doorway. 

Bucky didn’t play well with others. 

“Damn, dude. You look like shit. Bucky’s been keeping you awake?” Sam smirked.

“I know that’s supposed to be a joke, but no I haven’t been sleeping,” Steve rolled his eyes.

“Not for any of the fun reasons, I’m guessing,” Sam quipped, raising an eyebrow. 

“Shut up,” Steve’s cheeks were starting to burn as he let him in. He knew this wasn’t Sam's first choice of evening plans. He knew Bucky wasn’t going to make the list of Sam’s best buddies. But he was  _ so  _ grateful Sam was a good enough friend to suck it up and do this for him. “He’s out on the balcony.”

_ Finally  _ deciding he was more likely to lose his mind stuck in the apartment than he was to be murked by some Hydra operative, Bucky was spending more time outside. He was starting to even feel  _ safe  _ there. (At least, that’s what he told Steve. If someone took him out, though, he would have been okay with it.)

“Hey Bucky,” Sam said, sliding the glass door shut behind him.

Declining to answer, Bucky continued to smoke his cigarette, feet propped up on the arm of the chair next to the one he was sitting in.

“Nice night. A little cold, isn’t it?” Sam asked. The sun was starting to recede behind the Manhattan skyline.

Silence.

Sam took it in stride, a lot of the veterans he’d helped in support groups had been reluctant to talk at first. It wasn’t  _ easy.  _ (And he certainly wasn’t on great terms with the guy. He’d been prepared for hostility.)

“I’m not thrilled to be here either, man, but for Steve’s sake we’re gonna get along. Sound fair?” He tried to keep his tone conversational. 

When Sam didn’t get a response, he pulled the chair toward him, dropping Bucky's feet abruptly to the floor. Bucky huffed.

Sam made himself comfortable, pulled his jacket around him tighter, and silently cursed the fact that Bucky didn't want to do this  _ inside.  _

Bucky sighed. Because Steve had asked him to try, so hell if he wasn’t going to try.

“Steve tells me you’ve been having nightmares, haven’t been sleeping?” Sam said.

Bucky was staring daggers at the concrete floor, but he nodded nonetheless.

“It’s a natural response after all you’ve been through. They used to call it shell-shock when you were in the war, right? Now we call it post traumatic stress disorder.” 

Bucky didn’t speak, but he looked up and made eye contact with Sam for the first time since he’d walked in. 

“Do you want to tell me about the nightmares?” Sam looked out over the buildings.

“Don’t always remember them,” Bucky took another drag from his cigarette.

“Try,” Sam pressed.

After a long pause, Bucky deadpanned, “Pain. Burning. Feels like I’m on fire, but it’s electricity. Sometimes I’m falling,” He closed his eyes before continuing, it was easier than looking Sam in the face. 

“Sometimes I see Steve being hurt. Sometimes I’m the one hurtin’ him,” Bucky extinguished his cigarette on the railing, looking down at the city with an intensity that left Sam worried he was calculating how much damage a jump from this height would do. 

Bucky described how it felt to be a back seat passenger in his own body. (Once he started talking about the torture he couldn’t stop himself, but his voice was devoid of emotion.) These were things he could never bring himself to say to Steve. He didn’t want pity.  _ Angry  _ at what had been done to him; at what had been forced from him, he’d redirected all the hatred and violence toward himself. “I see all of them, every single life I’ve taken. Shoulda been mine instead.”

Sam wasn’t expecting that. It was jarring that what he had considered a cold-blooded killing machine had a real human soul. A conscience. He’d thought Steve was crazy trying to bring Bucky back after everything, but now he saw that this was just a man weighed down heavily by the guilt of the atrocities he’d been made to commit. It was  _ different  _ hearing it straight from his mouth. 

Bucky leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands. What he didn’t say was how out of control he felt. How it was bad when he felt like his thoughts might not be his own— how it was worse when he knew that they  _ were.  _ How if he sank any lower, he’d be scraping the deep end. 

He didn’t say how fried his nerves were—that pain might be the only thing he could process. He didn’t say he  _ needed  _ the cold to keep him present, or how he thought about sticking his hand on the stove to see if he could feel it.

What he did say was, “I should have fucking died.”

Sam could no longer fault him for what he did. Yeah, he was a  _ douchebag  _ sometimes _ , _ but all in all, he was a means to an end; Hydra’s plaything. They would have found a way to cause the same destruction with or without the Winter Soldier. Sam clasped him on his shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” Bucky still didn’t look up, “please.” 

Sam retracted his hand immediately. 

“Bucky, what happened to you is… unimaginable. But it was never your fault. You were a prisoner of war, man. You did what you had to do to survive. That’s going to come with a lot of guilt. But you know what matters? That you want to do better now. You’re a goddamn hero.”

Bucky wanted to cry all over again, but he refused to do it here. The humanity, the  _ empathy _ , was overwhelming, and Sam didn’t even  _ like him  _ all that much. 

But really, it was hard for him to believe. He was always on edge, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. This seemed too much like a trick; a sick joke in which he was the punchline. It was just a matter of time, he thought.

Stoic, breathing in and out through his nose, Bucky didn’t  _ know _ why everyone was treating him so kindly. He was confused, capricious, self-destructive—  _ violent. _ He wasn’t eating, he couldn’t sleep.

Sam gave him some grounding techniques to use when he felt like he was dissociating and some things to think about before the next time they would talk in a few days. He suggested journaling, writing down things he was sure were real.

Lost inside his head, Bucky spent the rest of the night on the balcony,  _ writing _ like he used to as a teenager. He wrote down things he remembered; filled notebook pages with lists marked  _ good _ and  _ bad _ . The sun had gone down and his ink stained hand had started to cramp.

He thought about splitting ice pops with Steve in the summer at the height of the Depression. He thought about Steve laughing, his mouth stained red. Bucky remembered how  _ happy  _ he’d been, sun-drunk at the end of a long day outside.

Bucky thought about the lake in Prospect Park.

He thought about listening to rain pelt the roof, watching Steve draw by the light of flickering candle flame. 

He thought about Steve asking him, during the war, if they could go somewhere —anywhere— together when it was all over. 

He thought— vaguely— about the way trees used to look outside his window before his family moved to New York. He wondered why he couldn’t pull forward many memories of that time. Part of him decided that it must have been because he was too young. But another part suggested that maybe his  _ life  _ began and ended with Steve. He’d lived in a hundred different timelines. Steve had managed to find him in every one. 

(Frightening as the idea was, he couldn’t seem to stop going back to it.) 

Eventually, Steve coaxed him inside for dinner, draping a blanket around his shoulders. He’d made pancakes, like they used to have for a treat at sleepovers when they were kids. Bucky offered help on several occasions but Steve shooed him away, suggesting he set the table instead. (He needed something to occupy his hands.) 

Steve talked to him as they ate, regardless of whether or not Bucky could bring himself to respond— or stomach more than a single pancake. 

Steve’s encouragement, soft suggestions to try just a few more bites— it  _ helped.  _

Bucky was staring down at his plate until Steve slid something across the table in front of him. It was a file. Bucky looked up in search of some clarification. 

“It’s mine. Asked Nat for a favor,” Steve offered a small smile from across the table. 

Bucky ran his metal fingers over the picture of Steve paper clipped to the inside cover. It was old, from before he went into the ice but after the serum. 

“You don’t have to. But.. it’s only fair, since I read yours right? No more secrets,” Steve was always doing that, always offering him choices.

Bucky hesitated, wary of the contents, but he braced himself and turned the page. As he read, Steve cleared the dishes. 

There were reports of missions Steve had been on — both before the war and after. There were detailed accounts of every infraction, every rule Steve had ever broken. (Bucky had to chuckle at those.)

The way they’d treated him, though— the way they used him and lied to him, offered him  _ shit  _ when he needed support—  _ enraged  _ Bucky. When he got to the psych evaluations, his blood was boiling.

‘Captain Rogers displays self-sacrificing behavior,’

‘Captain Rogers is reckless and unpredictable,’

‘Captain Rogers has little sense of self-preservation,’

According to whomever was writing, this made Steve a  _ good soldier.  _ According to them, Steve’s willingness to die doing the right thing was all they needed from him— until of course, Steve started to disagree with them on what the  _ right thing  _ was. 

According to Bucky, Steve was an idiot. Abruptly, he slammed the file down. Steve turned, startled. 

“You jump out of planes without a parachute?” Bucky stared at him from the kitchen table.

“I.. may have done that once or twice,” Steve admitted.

“ _ You dumbass,”  _ Bucky said.

“It’s-,” Steve started. He’d been okay so far. It really wasn’t a big deal.

“ _ Stop  _ that,” Bucky cut him off.

“..okay. Okay, I won’t do it again,” Steve promised, sincerely. He felt 16 again with a broken nose, a bloody lip—Bucky helping him up off the sidewalk after he’d gotten in some punk-ass fight. (“ _ Did ya see? I had ‘em”. Steve had beamed. “Yeah, of course I saw. You’re bleeding everywhere, moron, can I please take you home?” Bucky had replied.) _

“Good,” Bucky tapped his nervous fingers against the tabletop. 

Steve turned to switch on the dishwasher. His cheeks burned.

“We don’t talk about it enough, but what they did to you.. leaving you on your ass after coming out of the ice. Lying to you, pushing you into fights that weren’t yours. Not giving you any help processing. That was wrong,” Bucky vented. “What they did to you was wrong.”

Bucky was  _ right _ . Steve had spent a lot of time trying to justify SHIELD’s actions; to reconcile the part of himself that wanted to  _ do the right thing  _ with the part that had been  _ used and discarded.  _ Forced to see everything he’d fought for fall apart, forced to learn of his friends deaths with files stamped DECEASED, Steve thought maybe they shouldn’t have been so cold, so  _ disingenuous.  _

Steve would never be able to find himself where he lost it. He’d never live up to the  _ concept  _ of ‘Captain America’. The shield was nothing but a mask.

“You deserved better, Stevie. You deserved better than you got,” Bucky said wholeheartedly. 

Nodding, Steve couldn’t disagree with Bucky when he was  _ looking at him like that.  _ Maybe he did  _ deserve better. _

“Sleep in your own bed,” Bucky slid the file away from him. He didn’t want to see any more.

Steve was taken aback. “..where did that come from?”

Bucky ignored his question.“We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. You should sleep in your bed,” he pressed. Steve had given up far too much for him already. It  _ wasn’t fair. _

Steve didn’t feel like he was in the position to argue. So they did. By the time Steve had put on a pair of flannel lounge pants, Bucky was on the floor beside his bed with the cushions and a blanket, completely out. 

So, not wanting Bucky to hear, he stepped out onto the balcony to make a call. Sam picked up on the second ring.

“Thanks for doing that, Sam. Really. I appreciate it,” Sliding the glass door closed behind him, Steve didn’t think he could adequately put into words how much this all meant. 

“Of course.”

Steve breathed out his nose, squeezed his eyes shut. The frigid wind bit at his skin— nearly  _ painful  _ even for a super soldier at these temperatures. But he stayed where he was. He wanted to feel what Bucky felt. 

“Before — when you thought he was a lost cause— do you still feel that way?” Standing out in the cold, Steve braced for the answer. 

The silence on the other end of the line nearly sent Steve crashing through the 7 stages of grief all at once. His chest hurt.

Then Sam said “ _ no _ ” with so much sincerity that it almost knocked Steve backward.

“I feel like I’m making it  _ worse, _ ” Steve was pacing— couldn’t keep still. 

“First off, man, he’s doing about as well as could be expected. It’s good he’s got you. Second, you both need to get out more, go somewhere. A cage isn’t the best place for him,”Sam reasoned.

“Do you think he’ll hurt someone?” Steve felt like a traitor for saying it out loud. 

“I think he’s more of a threat to himself than anyone else,” Sam said.

“I know I can’t  _ fix _ it, but I want to do everything I can. He doesn’t deserve to suffer like this,” Steve said.

Sam explained that this was going to be a long, difficult process. (Steve didn’t mind.) He sent Steve a link of resources for people caring for loved ones with mental illness. 

Steve mulled everything over while he went back inside, tiptoeing through the dark apartment. Curled up in his bed, he scrolled through the articles on his phone. Listening to Bucky’s quiet breathing, Steve decided that it didn’t matter what it took, he’d be whatever Bucky needed. 

.

Steve had only been asleep for a few hours before being startled into consciousness, hazy and disoriented. His feet were already hitting the floor as he heard Bucky whimpering, “no no no,” under his breath.

Heart racing, he got down beside him to try to gently shake Bucky awake.

Steve almost tripped over blankets that had been kicked off in his haste to stop Bucky from clawing at his stomach, his neck, his chest, as he thrashed on the cushions besides Steve’s bed.

“Hey, hey pal,” Steve tried.

“No no, please,  _ please,”  _ Bucky’s pale face contorted in a grimace. Bruises were welling up on his skin from metal fingertips. Steve panicked. 

“Wake up. It’s a dream, Buck. You’re safe, you’re okay,” He didn’t want to grab him, opting to shake the cushion instead.

Bucky bolted upright, nearly knocking Steve in the forehead. He grabbed Steve’s forearm with a clammy palm. 

“You’re okay, it was a dream,” Steve said.

Bucky looked wildly around the room, to  _ prove _ to himself that it wasn’t real. It felt  _ off— sinister—  _ as if shadows on the walls were looming over him. But Steve was here. And that was enough for the terror in his head to fall away— at least for now.

“Breathe. You’re in my room. You’re safe,” Steve soothed, crouched on his knees.

Bucky looked up, but didn’t let go of his arm. “What time is it?”

Steve was unsure of why that mattered, but he craned his neck to see the clock on the nightstand. “It’s 2:40.” 

Bucky grimaced. “I’m sorry,” He rubbed at his face with his metal hand.

“Stop, doll, it’s okay,” Steve said, wishing Bucky didn’t look so guilty— wishing Bucky would stop breaking his heart. Steve was imagining smoothing out the crease in Bucky’s brow with his thumb. But he didn’t.

“I’m—,” Bucky trailed off, unsure of what exactly he was trying to say.

“Talk to me,” Steve urged, steady, unwavering in his patience. He ghosted fingertips along Bucky’s forearm.

“You called me doll,” Bucky noted.

Oops. 

Steve stopped breathing, worried he’d fucked up. He guessed it just kind of.. slipped. “I’m sorry, I can stop—”

“ _ No,”  _ Bucky insisted. It was nice. It felt safe.  _ Steve _ felt safe. It felt like the only thing he was sure of. “Stay here?” Bucky asked.

And of  _ course. Of course Steve wouldn’t leave. He had been stuck in Bucky’s gravitational pull for as long as he could remember. _ If he had to stay on the floor next to Bucky all night and let him cling to his arm like a child, he didn’t mind.

Steve repositioned himself so that he was sitting, cross legged, next to Bucky's sleeping arrangements. (Steve pushed back the instinct to urge Bucky to come sleep in his bed. He didn’t want Bucky feeling uncomfortable, or pressured, or like Steve was making a move on him right now while he was vulnerable.)

Bucky spent a few minutes just breathing, listening to Steve’s heartbeat while residual panic from the nightmare receded in waves.

“Did I ever tell you why they called me the White Wolf?” Bucky wondered.

Steve thought back on his trips to Wakanda. (He’d made a point to go at least once every few weeks while Bucky waited for clearance to come home. Sometimes Bucky remembered every one of his visits. Other times, he remembered nothing. Those times were hard.) 

“No, I don’t think you did,” Steve brushed fingertips across the back of Bucky’s hand, stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned his back against the nightstand.

“The night terrors,” Bucky said matter-of-factly. 

_ Oh.  _ That one hurt. “Did anyone ever come to check on you?”

Bucky hummed. “Shuri did, if she was around. But.. I think a lot of people were afraid of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve felt guilt down to the very marrow of his bones. It was heavy on his chest— he could crumble under the gravity of it. He wondered what would have been different had he jumped off that train after Bucky fell. What if he could have stopped all this pain— prevented any of it from ever happening? Would he and Bucky have been dead and buried by now— resting together? 

“Are  _ you _ afraid of me?” Bucky asked, still staring at the ceiling. 

“ _ No _ ,” Steve insisted.

Bucky thought the answer should have been ‘ _ yes’,  _ although he wasn’t sure he could have handled it if it was. He sighed at that, a soft, breathy laugh that did something  _ funny  _ to Steve’s heart. 

Pulling the blanket up around Bucky’s shoulders, Steve tried not to let sadness permeate this moment. Bucky turned away from him, onto his side, and tucked his hand under his cheek.

Steve did his best not to feel stung by the loss of contact— to, instead, commit soft instances like these to his memory. He never wanted to forget the way Bucky looked  _ right now— _ the soft bow of his parted mouth, the way his hair smelled like Steve’s shampoo. 

“Hey, Buck?” Steve whispered into the darkness, half expecting him to be asleep already. 

“Yeah?” Bucky replied, voice low and gravelly, eyelids fluttering open.

“Do you want to be here?” 

“Here as in New York?” Bucky shifted to look up at Steve over his shoulder. 

“New York.. this apartment…”  _ with me.  _ Steve thought that last part to himself.

Bucky took a moment to consider. “Yes. I do.” 

“Are you  _ sure?”  _ Steve pressed. (He  _ needed  _ him to be sure.)

Bucky reached over and squeezed Steve’s arm, looking at him from under thick eyelashes. “You didn’t make me come here, Stevie. I decided.”

It was on a list of the  _ handful _ of decisions Bucky had gotten to make for himself recently, right next to pulling Steve out of the Potomac. Bucky had every opportunity to stay in Wakanda. It was  _ nice  _ there; he liked the people. It just didn’t feel like home. 

(Maybe home wasn’t so much a  _ place.) _

He thought about the time he’d been here— about the time he’d spent in recovery. It was painful. It was uncomfortable confronting emotions he hadn’t had to deal with since before his brain went in a blender, but he  _ so aggressively  _ wanted to get better. 

He just hoped he wasn’t a burden on Steve. Steve, who was trying  _ so hard  _ to be everything he needed. Steve, who was giving and giving and  _ giving.  _

And Bucky still could barely even talk about what happened, though he knew he couldn’t distract himself from it forever. (What good would that do?)

Steve startled a bit when Bucky spoke again. “I’m not that guy anymore,” Bucky wasn’t the Winter Soldier, but he wasn’t Sergeant Barnes either. He had killed off a hundred versions of himself and never found one that quite fit. “Don’t know who I am, but I’m  _ angry  _ all the time.” 

“I know that, Buck,” Steve never expected him to be the  _ same.  _ “Lemme see those eyes,” he nudged Bucky softly. 

Bucky did so, albeit reluctantly. (God, sometimes Bucky felt like he had to  _ squint  _ to look at him— it was like looking into the  _ sun.  _ Steve was the fucking sun.)

“I’m not the same guy either. The old Steve Rogers died in the ice,” he spoke low.  _ That _ Steve Rogers had wanted security, didn’t want to kill anyone.  _ This  _ Steve Rogers had sworn to himself he’d be Hydra’s worst nightmare. 

“I’m not a good man. Think I used to be,” Bucky‘s voice wavered at the end. 

_ No.  _ Steve thought. He’d been dealt a bad hand, that’s all. “You aren’t  _ bad _ . And you don’t have to be  _ perfect  _ to be worth something. You taught me that,” Steve assured.

Bucky quieted. 

Sitting on the floor long after Bucky had gone to sleep again, Steve closed his eyes half-remembering, half-dreaming.

_ After freeing Bucky’s unit, Steve was given a captains quarters — a real bed— as a thank you for his bravery. A lot of the men in the 107th offered to buy him drinks, or a night with a dame, both of which Steve politely declined.  _

_ Hell, he even offered to give the accommodations up for Bucky, who had been sleeping uncomfortably for far longer than he had. Not to mention the torture, the captivity. _

_ (Bucky wouldn’t hear of it.)  _

_ When they were alone, Steve countered his refusal, insisting he wouldn’t take the room at all unless they could share at the very least. _

_ (If any of the men thought anything about it, they kept their mouths shut.)  _

_ Steve remembered Bucky stumbling through the threshold of the room, looking emaciated— looking like his whole body ached.  _

_ Steve remembered trying to get him to eat. He wouldn't— said Steve needed the extra rations more than him. Eventually, after a lot of nagging, he got Bucky to drink some water.  _

_ Bucky tried to hide from him how  _ **_hurt_ ** _ he was— even bypassing a trip to the medical tent. (Steve had begged him to go.)  _

_ Exasperated, Steve took the initiative to check on Bucky’s injuries himself. His Ma had been a nurse after all. He couldn’t leave it; it wasn’t in his nature. _

_ “Fine. Let me see then,” Steve insisted. He thought Bucky was acting weird — wished he’d just come out and say what was bothering him instead of staring at him from across the room with his brow furrowed, almost on guard. _

_ Sighing, Bucky yielded. He pulled his shirt over his head, displaying the extent of the injuries. (Something about this felt more vulnerable than any of the other times he’d ever had Bucky half-dressed in front of him.)  _

_ He noticed that Bucky was holding his breath, having lied through his teeth earlier to a commanding officer that the cut under his eye was the worst of it. _

_ The wounds were mostly superficial, albeit extensive. However, some of the cuts and contusions that littered his torso and back were deeper. _

_ “What did they do to you?” Steve tried to get a closer look at Bucky’s shoulder, but Bucky flinched away. _

_ “I’m fine, Stevie,” Bucky minimized his suffering the way he always had. “Lot of guys didn’t get out.” _

_ “Sit down, that needs stitches,” Steve pressed, trying to use his ‘Captain’ voice. _

_ Bucky sat down heavily on the rickety bed, facing away, and shifted to let Steve sit beside him. Steve dabbed at a cut on his shoulder blade with antiseptic from the medkit— began to sew him up, trying really hard not to think of the violence that would have caused Bucky’s injuries.  _

_ Steve remembered apologizing for the sting. He remembered crimson staining his fingertips. _

_ “It’s okay. Doesn’t hurt,” Bucky muttered, head propped up on his knees.  _

_ “Liar.”  _

_ Bucky let him work in silence for a while before he continued. “Said if I wasn’t compliant, it would be worse.”  _

_ Steve’s hands halted, afraid of where this was going. _

_ “Told them to get fucked,” Bucky said cheerily. _

_ “Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathed. _

_ Steve remembered the way Bucky chuckled, low in his throat, like honey. _

_ He wanted to chastise Bucky for being reckless, but after what Steve had put himself through to get here, he really wasn’t in the position to be preaching about self-preservation. _

_ “You don’t have to do all this, ya know?” Bucky murmured.  _

_ “I owed you one,” Steve insisted. After all the time Bucky had spent taking care of him— keeping him company while he was sick in bed. (Keeping him  _ **_alive._ ** _ ) Steve figured he owed him a couple dozen. _

_ Steve remembered smiling to himself, tying off the thread and smoothing a bandage over his handiwork.  _

_ “Can you believe it? I’m finally useful, Buck. I’m finally worth somethin’,” It was like an epiphany. He was sure this is what he was good for. _

_ Bucky’s tired eyes flew open at that. He sat up straighter, turned to face Steve with only a little difficulty. (He might have had some cracked ribs as well. Not that he was going to tell anyone. But Steve had noticed.)  _

_ “Don’t say that,” He was looking Steve in the face with that same furrowed brow. _

_ “What?” Steve was confused. _

_ “You were worth somethin’  _ **_before._ ** _ ” _

_ Steve scoffed, but Bucky was completely serious, sitting cross legged on the bed, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, twisting his dog tags on the chain between his thumb and forefinger. The moon was rising outside base camp and what little light shone through the window was just enough to make out Bucky's features.  _

_ It cast the room in silver, but Steve thought Bucky looked like gold. Solid gold. _

_ Bucky set his jaw, swallowed thickly. “You’ve always been worth everything.” _

  
  


Bucky stirred in his sleep, catapulting Steve back into the present. He didn’t realize he was crying until tears dripped from his chin.

(They would get through this. They would. Because none of this felt past tense to him.  _ His  _ Bucky was right here,  _ now.) _

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Steve let Bucky sleep while he went for his 5am run, but even an 8 mile loop on the city streets couldn’t get him out of his own head. The brisk air did nothing to subdue the thoughts rattling around inside of his skull like pinballs. Instead of continuing like he normally would have, he turned around and went home. 

Stepping into the quiet apartment, he put on coffee and got himself some water from the fridge dispenser. Bucky must have been awake; the shower was running. (Bucky was fine, they were both fine.)

As the coffee brewed, he was going to sit down with the newspaper— maybe start the crossword. Instead, he caught sight of Bucky’s journal abandoned on the counter. After a moment of internal debate, he decided it would be a more interesting read than the news. 

Steve skipped some of the first pages, which seemed to be frantic entries from when Bucky was in a  _ bad  _ place. Reading those felt both too  _ unfair  _ and too difficult. So, he left it alone.

Instead, he flipped to a list entitled ‘Things To Remember’. Tilting his head, listening to make sure the water was still running, he continued reading Bucky’s slanted handwriting.

Things To Remember:

  * Brooklyn 
  * Natasha
  * Cigarettes are bad (???) 
  * Steve isn’t sick 
  * The Killers - When You Were Young
  * Romania 
  * Steve doesn’t like it when I hurt myself 
  * Water zebra plant before soil drys out, water peace lily after leaves start to droop
  * Butter pecan ice cream 
  * July
  * pierce is DEAD
  * Shuri texted to check in, give her a call
  * count backward from 100 by 7
  * Moon landing (!!)
  * Steve kept the dumb outfit 
  * It’s 2017
  * Plums
  * 17th birthday (unconfirmed) 



The list continued for several more pages, followed by one entitled ‘Things To Forget,’ that had been mostly crossed out— hard enough the paper had torn. Steve couldn’t get past the last line.

Suddenly, Bucky was in front of him, towel around his waist, hair still dripping. “Really, Steve? Again?” He plucked the journal from Steve’s fingertips and snapped it closed. “Gonna have to start writing in Russian.”

“Hey, wait, this is payback for all the times you went through my sketchbook. It was just  _ sitting  _ there,” Steve complained half-heartedly.

It wasn’t like Bucky hadn’t taken liberties perusing Steve’s drawings back in the day — the sketchbook that was  _ filled  _ with depictions of  _ Bucky.  _ The first time he’d seen, Steve had made a slew of weak excuses; things about Bucky’s face just being  _ technically  _ perfect to draw— he wasn’t sure if that made it worse or better. Bucky had winked at him, dimpled in that  _ cocky  _ way he did. He  _ knew  _ he was hot shit. Instead of making Steve feel embarrassed about it, Bucky had offered to sit for his portrait. 

Across the kitchen, Bucky rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, unable to pretend that Steve  _ didn’t  _ have a point. Truthfully, Bucky didn’t really  _ mind  _ Steve reading his notes. He’d always had an easier time writing than saying things out loud. Maybe it would be  _ good for him _ — having someone genuinely know what he was going through. Setting his journal back on the counter, he started back into Steve’s room to change.

Steve’s tentative voice stopped him.

“You, um. You remember your 17th birthday?” Steve meant it to be more of a statement, but his nerves spiked his voice up at the end. The way Bucky froze had Steve bracing for a melt down that didn’t come.

“Yeah. Top of the Ferris wheel at Coney Island. No one could see us,” Bucky kept his hand on the door handle without turning around. Cheeks going red, mouth full of cotton, Bucky murmured, “You kissed me.”

Steve was  _ dumbfounded.  _ “Why didn’t you say anything?” All those years, Steve had thought he’d  _ dreamt  _ that— prayed he hadn’t. Bucky  _ finally  _ turned to look at him. 

“We were both  _ wasted.  _ Thought I made it up,” In all honesty, it felt too good to be true. Bucky had played it over in his head a million times but in the 40’s he was too fucking  _ scared  _ of what Steve would say if he asked and was  _ wrong. _

He was scared of what Steve would say  _ now. ( _ And lately, Bucky couldn’t stop running from the things that scared him.) 

“I’m going to go change,” Bucky blurted and shut the bedroom door firmly behind him. The look on Steve’s face from the kitchen table— shock and  _ wonder and awe—  _ it was too painful to witness.

Bucky leaned his back against the door, worried that his legs would be unable to hold him up. Touching his fingertips to his bottom lip, he was staring into the bedroom in front of him without really seeing it. He couldn’t stop thinking, remembering every other time in his life he’d ever wanted to kiss Steve. (It was a  _ long _ list.) 

And this one was  _ real, it was real, it was real. _

Bucky pulled a hoodie out of his side of the closet, dressing slowly, sluggishly like he was moving through water. He thought about Coney Island, the night before he left for England, the pub he and Steve had been at during the war. He thought about the night Steve had been given a captains quarters. (He thought  _ that  _ felt fabricated, too.) 

_ Steve had stitched him up so carefully, even after all his squirming and protesting. _

_ But he didn’t know how much longer he could stand Steve looking at him like a kicked puppy— like his heart was breaking. _

_ He remembered hopping up off the bed and muttering something about going to get washed up. He remembered Steve yelling at him to be careful with his stitches.  _

_ The water was freezing, but it made him feel a lot better. Less like he had died before Steve had gotten to him. Less like he was a fucking ghost. _

_ While Steve had taken his turn getting cleaned up, Bucky made himself as comfortable as he could on the floor. He couldn’t sleep on his back because it pulled the stitches. He couldn’t sleep on his stomach because it put pressure on his ribs. He settled for his side.  _

_ In the dark, with his eyes closed, he kept expecting another wave of beatings to come or to be strapped down and drugged. Half-hallucinating, consciousness falling between the cracks, he squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and tried to steady his breathing before Steve could notice he was freaking out. The ringing in his ears hadn’t gone away the entire walk back to base camp.  _

_ Bucky gasped, startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder and scrambled to his feet with his heart pounding in his ears. Steve backed up, palms raised.  _

_ “Sorry, sorry. Did you not hear me talking to you?” _

_ Bucky shook his head, trying to come down from the adrenaline. His mouth tasted metallic— like blood—like he was going to pass out. With the pointed fear in his stomach came the realization he was never going to be the same.  _

_ “I just said you’re not sleeping on the floor, we can share,” Steve soothed. _

_ It took him a moment to catch his breath, but Steve was a welcome distraction, standing before him shirtless. Swallowing thickly, he eyed Steve’s chest. Back home he’d been able to see the guy’s ribs. And now… _

_ Steve reached out his hands and dragged Bucky to the bed. The sensible part of Bucky protested, but the reckless part had butterflies in its stomach.  _

_ “There’s not enough room for the both of us anymore, you’re gigantic,” he joked, but his voice cracked with nerves. Maybe he was feverish, delirious from some type of head injury— or maybe Steve was making him stupid. Not too long ago, he’d even refused to leave a Nazi prison unless he was sure Steve was coming with him. What  _ **_was_ ** _ that? _

_ Bucky didn’t think he’d be getting used to this any time soon. Steve had always been beautiful to the point of distraction—his warm blue eyes crinkled at the corners every time he got that big goofy grin on his face. Always the loveliest fella Bucky had ever seen. Now he was just  _ **_healthy_ ** _ ; muscular and sturdy— less breakable. (Now he had an ass, not that Bucky had noticed. It was just.. hard not to.) _

_ “Shut up, jerk,” Steve fell backwards onto the mattress, pulling Bucky down with him.  _

_ “I can’t sleep here. What if someone sees?” Bucky was lightheaded, but he was realistic. He wasn’t oblivious to the fact that this was enough to get them both in serious trouble. It was dangerous. _

_ On the other hand, after being so sure he'd never see Steve again, he couldn’t take these little moments with him for granted.  _

_ Steve, who was a firecracker, but unyieldingly soft with him. Steve, who’d always been so sweet on him; like sugar. Steve, who could make hell feel like home. _

_ Steve, who was dragging the heavy desk chair in front of the door and double checking that all the shades were drawn before climbing back into bed, eyebrow quirked coyly. Before Bucky could say anything else, Steve was pulling him to his chest.  _

_ “If anyone asks, I spent the night in the infirmary,” Bucky didn’t want to raise his voice above a whisper. Steve nodded against his shoulder. _

_ He couldn’t stand it. Bucky had imagined splaying his hands across the expanse of Steve’s chest, (seriously, you could land a plane on it), tugging Steve’s sandy blond hair, bringing them face to face, and kissing his perfect mouth. Instead, he turned his back to Steve, praying that his body wouldn’t give him away. _

_ But, God, he loved him. He loved him. And he was here. Waking up in the Hydra facility, Bucky had been so sure he’d died, that he was reuniting with Steve in the afterlife. It was beautiful, it was perfect. (He was thinking about how’d he’d have to kick Steve’s dumb ass for dying before him as he was being helped to his feet, urged to run.) _

_ Bucky didn’t know what had gotten into him. (Okay, maybe he did.) All the millions of other times he’d thought about sex with Steve before, but now he didn’t have to shut down the idea on the premise that he’d break him. Instead, he now had to shut it down for a reason that hurt worse—Steve deserved better.  _

_ Even if, by some miracle, Steve loved him back, he couldn’t risk ruining Steve’s life.  _

_ They’d always been so close. Closer than what was acceptable. Bucky's father had once beaten him to within an inch of his life for it, but he didn’t have a single regret.  _

_ But the pain was intense, regardless of how much he was trying to hide it. The chaos in Bucky’s head was starting to scare him. He was exhausted and sore and still coming down from the hardwired certainty that he was going to die. What he really wanted to ask was if Steve was emotionally alright after everything he’d gone through recently. But a lot of those questions would have to wait until the morning— when Bucky could think more clearly.  _

_ He held his breath, turning once again to face Steve, eyes wide. (If it was  _ **_painful_ ** _ looking at Steve, it was even worse not looking.) They were so close, so close, so close. It would have been so easy to just close the few inches of distance between them and— Steve wouldn’t stop looking at his lips. He slipped an arm around Bucky’s waist.  _

_ Everything was new, different, strange. But the way Steve enveloped him felt like it always had. Even when Steve was smaller than Bucky, his presence was always all-consuming. (He needed to calm down, lest Steve hear his pounding heart.) _

_ Steve cleared his throat. “You leavin’? Discharged with honors?”  _

_ Bucky moved closer, pillowing his head against Steve’s bicep. He could just make out the flecks of green in the blue of Steve’s eyes. If Bucky was a stronger man with more self control, he would have stopped himself from trailing fingertips along Steve’s face—from tracing patterns in the sporadic freckles on Steve’s cheeks, shoulder, collarbone.  _ He didn’t have the willpower.

_ “Nah, I don’t think I’ll take ‘em up on that,” Bucky murmured. The Colonel had looked at him like he was out of his mind when he’d said no. Steve was looking at him the same way now. _

_ “You’re kidding. You’ve done more than your share. You don’t wanna go home?” Steve ran a hand over his back — softly, avoiding the stitches. _

_ “You’re here.” _

_ That’s the thing. Bucky didn’t feel like it would have been home at all without Steve. He couldn’t stomach the thought of returning to an empty apartment. _

In the present, Steve knocked on the door to ask if he was okay. Bucky hurriedly wiped tears off his cheeks with the back of his hand, shaken and overwhelmed by how  _ much  _ he was feeling. 

He answered back a unconvincing “yeah,” leaning his palms against the dresser, and staring in the mirror at a face that still didn’t seem like  _ his _ — at a body that felt too  _ thin, too damaged  _ under his hoodie. Steve called out for him again, said he had to go talk to Tony about something, that he’d be back soon.

Bucky said “okay,” but felt Steve hesitate on the other side of the door. Eventually, though, he left.

.

Steve was  _ preoccupied  _ with thoughts of the halcyon days of his youth— more specifically, the day in March at Coney Island. Before now, he’d compartmentalized it; it hurt to look back on because it felt  _ impossible,  _ like a fever dream.

Steve hadn’t kissed a lot of other people in his life. Just Peggy, the secretary from the military office and Natasha that one time— but that didn’t count; that was out of necessity. (But at least she’d warned him first.)

As a matter of fact,  _ he  _ hadn’t kissed any of them;  _ they’d  _ kissed  _ him.  _ Lorraine had cornered him. He’d been uncomfortable; embarrassed. He  _ hadn’t  _ consented. With Peggy, he guessed maybe he’d wanted to kiss her, but it most  _ definitely  _ wasn’t the first thing on his mind at that moment. He didn’t have any time to process what was happening. 

It was  _ different  _ with Bucky. Bucky had always given him time. It was slow. It was allowed to be on his terms.

_ On the Ferris wheel, Bucky had cupped his cheek; looked at him with these hazy, intense eyes. Steve was drunk off his ass, feeling bold, feeling giddy. And no one could see them. So, he leaned in, pressed his forehead to Bucky’s. Bucky grinned, dimpling, ran his thumb across Steve’s bottom lip. When Steve kissed him, sighing and slipping his hand to the back of Bucky’s neck, it was soft, it was heady, it was everything. Breaking apart to breathe, he stared at Bucky like he was made of fucking light. Bucky looked back, breathless. “Kiss me again, sugar.” _

Steve left the apartment and walked dejectedly down flight after flight of stairs to Tony’s lab. He  _ could  _ have taken the elevator, but he wanted to put this conversation off for as long as possible. 

He was also engrossed in the idea that Bucky could have been  _ angry _ with him. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut? The feeling that he’d somehow fucked everything up— overstepped a line— had him dragging his feet all the way to Tony’s office. 

Apparently there was a lot of that going around, because Tony looked ready for an altercation before Steve had even crossed the threshold. Seated at his workstation, Tony spared him any pleasantries. “I thought we agreed. He stays here,” Tony kept working, fiddling with some new prototype, barely looking at Steve. “This  _ is  _ about him, right?”

Steve bit back a smart comment. “Yeah, but Sam says—“

Tony cut him off. “I mean, it’s like letting a rabid  _ dog  _ off the leash.”

“That’s.. no. You’re not being  _ fair, _ he’s only a danger to himself. It’s not good for him to be trapped like this,” Steve inisted. He knew this wasn’t going to be a  _ congenial  _ conversation, but he didn’t for a  _ moment  _ second guess going to bat for Bucky. This was the hill he was willing to die on.

“I’m not worried about  _ his  _ well-being, Steve. I can’t entertain this, for  _ what?  _ Your  _ pride?”  _ Tony was tapping his pen against the table, glowering over a stack of blueprints.

Steve was  _ floored  _ for a split second, but recovered his coolheadedness quickly. “My  _ pride _ ?” He shook his head, “Tony, if you think everything I’ve done was for the sake of my  _ pride…  _ then you really don’t know me at all.”

Tony went silent. His pen stopped tapping. 

Leaning against the door jamb, Steve breathed out a heavy sigh and shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “Just answer me one thing. If this was Pepper, what would you do?”

Tony’s mouth fell open, processing. Practically watching the gears click together, Steve waited for a beat, even though he didn’t expect a response. 

“See, I know you well enough to know that the answer is  _ anything,”  _ Steve didn’t break eye contact, but Tony couldn’t keep it.

Tony set his jaw, but didn’t disagree. Dropping his pen onto the table, he laced his fingers together.

“Look, in spite of everything, Tony, I don’t want to fight with you. We’ve both made some questionable decisions with the best intentions.” Steve was being honest. (He was always honest.) He  _ wanted _ to keep the family intact— to ‘stay together for the kids’, as Tony had once put it. 

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “Steve ..” 

“He’s my first priority. If you want us gone, I can disappear with him tomorrow. I think we’d both really like to stay — but he can’t be captive for another decade.” Steve didn’t back down. He wasn’t so much  _ asking  _ for permission. And he was starting to feel like his living situation was more ‘keep your enemies closer’ than it was genuine hospitality.

None of them had clean hands —clean consciences. They both knew that. Tony had done his time harboring anger and resentment; he was tired— he was getting old. This wasn’t his fight anymore. So he relented. “Anything goes wrong, that’s on you.”

*

Tony washed his hands of the whole situation, impelling Steve’s insubordinate obligation to prove him wrong. Instead of returning back upstairs, Steve reconsidered, descending to the ground floor of the Tower. He braved the cold and took a detour down the street to the local grocery store.

When he did finally get back to the apartment, Bucky was watering the houseplants in silence. (Bucky  _ liked  _ taking care of things— keeping things alive _.) _

Steve didn’t mention the bloodshot in his eyes or the way he flinched at the sound of the door closing, but he wanted more than anything to wrap his arms around Bucky and just  _ keep him safe there.  _ Sitting a pint of butter pecan ice cream and a plastic bag of plums on the kitchen table, Steve was suddenly bashful.

“These are for you. I mean.. you like plums right?” Steve stammered. 

Face lit with an unanticipated smile, Bucky nodded and murmured a soft, “thank you, Stevie.” Such a small gesture that left him sure he didn’t deserve — had  _ never  _ deserved Steve Rogers. 

“If you’re feeling up to it, Buck, maybe we could take a walk,” Steve suggested nonchalantly, emptying the bag of plums into the fruit bowl on the counter and placing the ice cream in the freezer. Moving, always moving — he couldn’t keep too still.

“Outside?” Bucky sat the spray bottle down, eyebrows knit together. Steve trusted him enough to take him out? Out out? With other people in a crowded city?

Smiling, golden and optimistic, Steve said, “yeah, pal.” Whatever tinge of sadness in his eyes, was far outweighed by the hope. 

“Is this a test?” Apprehensive, Bucky rubbed the stubble on his cheek. (It had been a few days since he’d gotten around to shaving, he still wasn’t allowed to have a razor unsupervised.)

“No. I think it’ll be good for us both. We can go to this coffee place a few blocks away. It’ll be nice.” Steve took a few careful steps closer. Pulling up the coffee place’s website on his phone, he handed it over for Bucky to peruse. “We can beat the lunch rush if we go now.”

Bucky didn’t want to admit to himself how scared he was, but Steve was looking at him with such confidence that almost made him dizzy. He wanted to do better— to  _ be  _ better. And from the pictures, the shop looked homey, inviting. 

So he agreed. He even let Steve bundle him up in a scarf, hat, and gloves to keep him warm. They took the stairs to the ground floor because Bucky didn’t want to test his luck with the elevator just yet. Steve understood. He kept his hand — nearly, not  _ quite touching  _ — the small of Bucky's back to lead him down the corridors of the tower.

“You don’t have to do that,” Bucky commented absently. Steve looked at him quizzically until he continued. “It’s okay if you touch me. Don’t mind it, if it’s you.”

“I.. are you sure?” Steve asked. Bucky responded by reaching behind him, grabbing Steve’s hand and pressing it firmly against his back. It helped. It tethered him to the present. On the way out the door, Steve assured him that they would return home the second Bucky didn’t feel like he could handle it.

But, as soon as they were on the sidewalk, Bucky was hit with  _ terror  _ so intense it almost brought him to his knees; like his body was processing a fight or flight response. Focusing on his breathing the way Sam had taught him to, Bucky barely registered Steve stopping in his tracks, standing off to the side, blocking him from the people passing by. Steve told him to take his time.

He wasn’t feeling  _ bad,  _ necessarily, just overwhelmed. Anxiety warned him he wasn’t  _ ready  _ for this. What if he snapped? What if something went wrong. What if someone found him? He couldn’t verbalize any of this, try as he might. He opened his mouth and shut it immediately.

After a few minutes, the tide of emotion receded and Bucky felt like he could walk again— like he wasn’t drowning. His hands were shaking, so he shoved them harshly into the pockets of his dark coat before Steve could see.

Flurries of snow started to dust the streets, but the heaviness in the atmosphere warned that they would soon turn to rain. People bustled around them, so Bucky walked fast, trying to minimize the time spent out in the open. Steve matched his pace, walking on the street-side to keep Bucky feeling safer.

Treating it like a mission, Bucky calculated the distance between him and his destination; between him and an escape route. He didn’t speak again until they had reached the shop and Steve pulled the door open for him. He thought he’d be able to breathe more easily once they were inside— he was wrong. 

Immediately, in the warmth, he was hit with the scent of fresh baked bread and cinnamon. A cheery barista behind the counter called out a greeting. Bucky  _ liked  _ coffee houses. It  _ should have been alright.  _ Something was amiss, tough. His stomach dropped the way it had when he’d heard police sirens in Romania.

Steve nudged him with his elbow, lifted an eyebrow, a silent ‘ _ you good?’  _ Bucky gave a barely perceivable nod in response.

Standing behind Steve in line while he ordered, Bucky kept his eyes on the door. He wasn’t really paying much attention until Steve pulled gently on his sleeve to guide him to the bar seating near the back of the shop— away from the windows, away from prying eyes in case they were recognized by  _ fans  _ or worse. He was busy taking inventory of the situation. Christmas music was playing over the speakers and fairy lights were strung up along the walls. Bucky remembered Steve used to love Christmas.

He had to force himself to focus, to drown out the noise of the people around them so he could hear Steve telling him he’d be back in a second; that he had to go grab their order. 

Sitting down on one of the high-backed chairs, he couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder. A group of girls— probably college students— were typing on laptops at the table behind him. An old man was carrying out a box of pastries. A mother had a sleeping toddler in her arms. A man in a green scarf was staring at him. He averted his eyes.

The normalcy felt..  _ artificial. _ Bucky didn’t know if he’d been  _ conditioned  _ to feel this paranoia or if something was genuinely wrong, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. If he warned Steve, would he be making himself look crazy? 

When he saw Steve walking back toward him again, some of the dread subsided. Steve sat down next to him and grinned, handing him a bagel wrapped in wax paper and a cup.  _ Green tea,  _ which Bucky had recently acquired a taste for, was scrawled on the outside. 

Taking his own bagels out of the paper bag, Steve was smiling so much his cheeks were starting to sting. Bucky was lucid and aware, even if Steve could tell he was restless.

Steve still eyed him carefully, no matter how hopeful he was, but when Bucky smirked at him over the lid of his cup, Steve could have sworn he got a glimpse of the confident, self-assured man Bucky used to be. He thought of that song Bucky had played for him not too long ago— the one that went ‘ _ sometimes you close your eyes and see the place where you used to live when you were young.’  _

Watching Bucky now,  _ understanding  _ why Bucky loved that album so much, he couldn’t describe the feeling better than those words. 

Bucky felt  _ strange _ — like he was going to laugh and cry simultaneously. Steve was on his second sandwich before he’d taken more than a few bites of his first. 

“What do ya think, Buck?” Steve asked carefully, shifting in his seat. “How’re ya feeling?”

Glancing over his shoulder again, Bucky thought about it. The girls behind them were laughing a little too loud, and the toddler was starting to fuss. “Feels like I don’t have Tony Stark breathing down my neck.” As out of place as Bucky felt, that was a bonus, at least. But something was wrong. Something was wrong. 

The bell over the door at the front of the shop chimed. Steve reached over and squeezed Bucky's hand when he flinched.

“So normal life?” Steve asked in an attempt to ease Bucky’s anxieties. “What do you think? Retire? Grow out beards? Adopt a few cats? Or goats?” (Or  _ kids _ . Steve thought. Whatever Bucky wanted.) 

Letting out a humorless laugh, he mulled it over. “You’re not done fighting the good fight.” He shook his head. Bucky didn’t think he was done yet either— not when he felt like this, not with this heaviness on his chest. Not with Hydra still around. He had work to do— maybe not right this second, but eventually. 

Understanding, Steve nodded. 

“But one day. We could get some cats,” Bucky nudged him gently with his shoulder.

Staring at Bucky next to him, it clicked why Steve never wanted to settle down before— why he declined the notion of  _ retirement  _ and  _ stability  _ whenever one of his teammates brought it up.  _ This  _ is what he was waiting for. This was everything.

Bucky finished his green tea and went to throw their trash away. He was noticeably paler, even more on edge when he returned. 

“Stevie, we need to go. Guy in the green scarf has been staring at us,” Bucky didn’t raise his voice above a whisper. 

Immediately agreeing, Steve shrugged his coat back on and they were gone. He didn’t say Bucky was overreacting, or that maybe the guy was staring at him because he was a jerk. That could have been true _ — or  _ it could have been Hydra. Steve wasn’t going to pretend that wasn’t possible and he wasn’t going to take the chance. So, they took a roundabout way home; they used the hidden entrance. The man didn’t follow them.

Bucky thought they needed to be more careful. He worried that he’d never feel completely safe for as long as he lived— not while he felt weak, at least; not while he couldn’t fight back. He’d talk to Sam about that, he supposed, next time he saw him.

Steve played The Killers over the speaker in the apartment the rest of the afternoon as the rain drenched the gray city outside the windows. Bucky hummed along under his breath to drown out the discordance in his head.

.

“Do you still draw, Stevie?” Bucky asked while they were on the couch that evening. He had his legs tucked under him, wrapped in a blanket. Steve was sprawled out next to him with one foot propped on the coffee table beside the empty container of ice cream they’d shared. It was late. Steve’s eyes drifted closed every so often. He’d missed most of the movie they had been watching, but Bucky was restless and looking for something to occupy his hands. 

“I do, yeah. When I get the chance,” Steve admitted; not that he would ever let anyone else find out. “Can’t say I was ever any  _ good  _ though.” 

Bucky snorted. “I think you’re mistaken, old man. Do you remember the picture of the park you did for your Ma? With the lake and all the ducks?”

“Course I remember that. It was awful,” Steve’s eyes fell closed again, though the soft smile remained on his lips. 

“Wasn’t awful. She loved it,” Bucky insisted. 

“She  _ had  _ to love it, I was her  _ son,”  _ Steve teased.

“You’re infuriating,” Bucky moved closer, letting Steve drape an arm around his shoulders. Neither of them spoke for a good 5 minutes, until Bucky changed the subject. “D’ya think people are looking for me?”

Steve felt his heart stutter and fall, trailing fingertips up and down Bucky’s shoulder. It was  _ possible _ ; it was  _ likely.  _ “I don’t know, doll. But we can take ‘em if they are.”

Bucky agreed weakly, hands still shaking. Muttering something about needing to write, Bucky rummaged through his belongings to find his journal and sat at the kitchen table. 

After a few minutes, Steve made them both some tea and joined him. It was just like the old days when Bucky would sit up with him for hours while he worked on whatever commission he’d managed to scrounge up that day. Steve didn’t know what to do with all the fondness that welled up in his chest. He felt like he needed to hold his breath to keep from shouting, or maybe crying or laughing. He settled for leaning his elbows on the table and resting his forehead against his folded hands.

“Are you prayin’?” Bucky didn’t look up from the page.

“No, just tired,” Steve answered, rubbing at his bleary eyes.

“Looked like you were. You used to sometimes.”

“You’re right,” Steve chuckled. The way Bucky’s gaze burned right through him made Steve think maybe he  _ should be. _

“Sleep. I’m alright here,” Bucky suggested.

Steve was going to protest, but God, he was exhausted. “You sure?” 

Bucky nodded. As Steve passed his chair on the way to bed, he gave Bucky’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Steve slept like the dead. In his dreams he saw Bucky smoking on the fire escape of their old apartment, Bucky feeding the stray cats that used to live on their street, Bucky sitting around a fire with the Commandos— a shit-eating grin on his face ready to tell the punchline of a dirty joke. Bucky falling from a train. 

One of  _ Steve’s  _ worst dreams went like this:

Bucky was in front of him in a train car and Steve knew what was coming, but he  _ couldn’t stop it.  _ He knew he wouldn’t reach Bucky in time; Bucky was already falling. When Steve turned, he was in an empty, dimly lit dance hall. Bucky was in front of him under the chandelier, looking  _ beautiful  _ in his dress uniform, holding out a hand. Then they were dancing, Steve pressed against his chest, except he was  _ small.  _ Bucky’s chin rested on his head the way it used to when Bucky would try to teach him how to dance in their living room.

Then Bucky looked down at him and said, ‘you could have stopped it,’ blood pouring from his mouth and soaking his shirt. Steve tried to help, but he was so weak and so small; he  _ couldn’t do anything. Bucky was dying and he couldn’t do anything.  _ The glass shattered from above—  _ rained _ down on them— and Hydra was dragging Bucky away. Steve screamed his name but there was no sound. 

And then he was on a bridge, cracking his shield into the Winter Soldier’s skull, dropping him dead at his feet. And the mask was off, and it was Bucky, and Steve hadn’t known, he couldn’t have known. But Bucky was dead because of him again.

When Steve woke, gasping, the late morning sun was streaming in through the window and Bucky was still writing.

.

Nat started joining Steve again when he’d work out at the crack of dawn— like she  _ used  _ to before Steve had taken Bucky in. Once, he tried to apologize for shutting her out when things got overwhelming, but she wouldn’t have it. She’d already forgiven him. They picked up where they left off no questions asked.

Whenever she had some time off, she came over for what she called ‘family game night’. Really, it was just them teaching Bucky how to play Nintendo. If he’d get frustrated, they’d switch to cards or watch movies. Since Bucky had always been a  _ comically  _ sore loser, they usually ended up watching movies. 

Steve’s initial apprehension about the whole situation turned out to be unsubstantiated. Bucky and Natasha got on like a house on fire. Their quick banter proved how well they balanced each other out. It was good— for both of them— to have another friend.

Natasha had taken to affectionately calling Bucky  _ l’vionachik _ — partly to get a reaction out of him, but mostly because ‘ _ little lion’  _ seemed fitting. Bucky would scoff and say he wasn’t a child. But Steve knew by the blush on his cheeks he liked the term of endearment. Not that he ever would have said so out loud.

One night they were watching another cheesy 90’s chick flick. ( _ Nat’s  _ choice.) Natasha brought the popcorn— and alcohol  _ mainly _ for her, but Bucky drank as well. It had no effect, but he  _ remembered  _ the taste.

They teased Steve lightheartedly— ganged up on him when they were together. Bucky even cracked a few smiles and jokes. It was  _ good,  _ even if it was just a distraction. 

Steve was situated in the middle of the couch, arm draped over the back— Bucky had his back against the armrest and his feet in Steve’s lap. From the armchair, Nat was tipsy, laughing at Bucky’s retelling of the time Steve tried to teach him how to text when he got a phone. Bucky  _ knew  _ how to text; Shuri taught him. He knew it wasn’t like a telegram. Instead, he had to inform Steve that WTF doesn’t stand for ‘well that’s fantastic’.

Grinning, Steve ran his hand over his face. This felt like sitting around the fire with the Commandos. This felt like  _ family —  _ like  _ home. _

“Remember when you told the team to watch our language?” Nat smiled, taking another swig from her bottle.

Steve groaned at the memory. “ _ It slipped.” _

“Oh, you’re never living that one down,” Bucky smiled, leaning his head back against the couch. 

“Says the guy that had the filthiest mouth in our unit,” Steve joked. “My Ma taught me better than to swear in front of women.” 

Nat winked at him.

As night melted into the early hours of the morning, Bucky crashed first, a pillow to his chest as he slept. He must have been exhausted, trailing off mid-sentence, head cushioned against the armrest. The way he felt safe enough to let his guard down in Nat’s presence— that surprised Steve; transcended any of his hopes. If everything outside of this apartment was too  _ real _ and terrifying, at least they had moments like this.

Trying not to move too abruptly, Steve reached behind him and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch to drape over Bucky. He didn’t mean to  _ stare.  _ He  _ didn’t—  _ but Bucky hummed in his sleep, turning onto his side, legs in Steve’s lap. In the dim, flickering light of the TV, Nat caught Steve watching him. He turned his head, flustered. 

“You gotta run with it,” Nat drawled, setting down her empty bottle on the coffee table.

Warily, Steve eyed her— like a child caught misbehaving. He was about to tell her he didn’t know what she was  _ referring to _ , but Nat didn’t give him the opportunity.

“I’m not  _ blind,  _ Rogers, and you’re not exactly subtle,” Natasha chuckled. 

“I—,” Steve didn’t know why he was hiding from her the way he’d been  _ hiding  _ his whole life.

“We don’t have to talk about it. But you know how impossible the odds are that you both ended up in this decade,” she said sincerely. 

“ _ Shh,”  _ Steve panicked, worried Bucky could hear. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, you guys are gonna give me gray hairs,” Nat rolled her eyes, eliciting a pillow to the head; but Steve was smiling.

Natasha was  _ right,  _ of course. If fate was cast in stone—  _ unchangeable—  _ this had always been his. Steve had already waited too long and, in their line of work, they didn’t get handed many second chances. _ In their line of work there were no guarantees _ . 

Steve didn’t intend to darken the mood— but this was a millstone around his neck. Fear was getting harder to hold off. “Do you think they’re looking for him?” It was a dumb question.

The smile died on Natasha’s lips. Canned laughter echoed from a sitcom that had started on the TV. “Did something happen?” Nat kept her voice down. 

“I think someone might’ve been watching us. He’s not sure. But he was.. shaken,” Steve explained, rubbing at his forehead.

“I haven’t heard anything,” she paused a beat, “but I’ll look into it.” She didn’t have to say that it was  _ probable.  _ They both knew. They knew it wasn’t a matter of  _ if. It was when. _

Later, on Natasha’s way out of the apartment, she gave Steve a kiss on the top of the head, squeezed his arm reassuringly. A silent “we’ll fight for him as long as we have to.”

*

There were still nightmares—times where Steve would rush to calm his screaming. 

There were still times when Bucky would slip. He’d get this far-away look in his eye and become concerningly subservient. Bowing his head in submission, he’d mumble under his breath in Russian. (Those were the times Steve would have to make sure nothing he said sounded remotely like a command. Those were the times when ‘no, Buck, You’re free,’ would roll off his tongue like a mantra. ‘You’re free, you’re free, you’re  _ safe _ .’ Reverently, like a prayer.) 

But overall, things were  _ better.  _ Bucky was remembering more every day. He was getting stronger. He was trying. He’d roll his eyes fondly whenever he would find the sticky notes Steve left around the apartment — little messages on the mirror, on the kitchen cabinets, in Bucky’s books.

Things like “don’t forget to eat”

“Your name is Bucky”

“I’ll be back by noon”

“You’re safe here”

“Water the plant”

“It wasn’t your fault”

“It’s 2017”

They weren't always  _ necessary,  _ but he appreciated the gesture all the same. 

Steve would sometimes be at the kitchen table going over files—reports on missions Nat asked him to consult on.  _ Technically _ , he was still in forced retirement— he thought of it as a  _ semi-hiatus—  _ but just because he wasn’t  _ supposed to  _ be working right now didn’t mean he couldn’t help out. No one  _ really  _ had to know.

Now he was looking into some leads on possible Hydra basses. It was nothing concrete— just whispers and ghost stories. But it was worth looking into. Bucky used to be a ghost story.

Not wanting to scare Bucky unless they had something real kept Steve from turning the kitchen into a makeshift war room; he did what he could to shield Bucky from the brunt of it. He didn’t mention any specifics, just that they might have some information on arms dealers— which wasn’t a  _ lie  _ per se. (Bucky knew that wasn’t the whole truth, but he didn’t press.)

However much Bucky wanted in— wanted to stop feeling so useless; like he was finally on the  _ right side—  _ he knew he wasn’t ready. Steve, seeing through his half-hearted offers to help, insisted, “getting better is a full time job, Buck.”

Setting down his file, Steve continued, “Also remember when you told Nick Fury to kiss your ass?”

“I.. forgot about that,” Bucky said, shifting in his chair.

“Well, I’m sure  _ he _ didn’t,” Steve started.

Bucky  _ was beaming.  _ “But it was funny though, right?”

Steve sighed, trying and failing to look stern, moonstruck, instead, by the light in Bucky’s ice blue eyes—the dimple in his chin. “...yeah it was funny.”

They’d wanted Bucky to continue operating as an assassin under  _ their _ charge— he wasn’t having it. He didn’t  _ do that  _ anymore. He couldn’t be a pawn again; have his  _ will  _ stripped from him— he refused. So, he didn’t fight Steve very hard hard when he suggested sitting this one out. 

So, instead, Bucky would sit at the table and write while Steve worked.

.

After everything, part of Bucky was still grateful Hydra had injected him with the serum. Yeah, he couldn’t seem to fucking _ die  _ and they’d had to electrocute him every so often to keep him complacent. But whatever resilience he had in his past life was tenfold now. Given time, he had to believe that he would heal.

When he was at his worst, it was like watching the past through a staticy TV screen. With time, each recollection became more real and tangible. The downside, of course, was that the past 75 years were horrific. Although, he’d take those memories— all of them — gladly, if it meant he got to keep the ones of Steve. 

But sometimes, things went dark. Sometimes, Bucky walked step by step through his escape plan in his head. Sometimes, he was convinced he was still running— that Steve would get hurt if he stayed; that Hydra would come back. There was always fall out damage in these situations. Today it was Steve. 

Sometimes, in low light, Steve looked for  _ a split second  _ like Pierce when he was younger. Blond, blue eyed. (In retrospect, Bucky wondered if they’d done that purposely, to be cruel— given him handlers that looked like Steve.) 

He was dozing on the couch. (He wished he could clear his head— could get some  _ real  _ fucking sleep.) The flickering of the TV distorted the living room in the strange way it often did. Through half-lidded eyes, all Bucky processed was a figure coming toward him.

It was Pierce, he was sure of it. Eyes flying open, he was already reaching for the knife he’d taken to hiding in the waistband of his pants. 

Then he was on his feet, slamming the figure into the wall with force enough to knock off picture frames. He aimed the knife at Pierce's neck, but his hand grabbed Bucky's wrist, pried it away. 

He felt like he was watching himself through a mirror, but the image was lagging; like he was walking through quicksand. Everything dark and blurry, he didn’t know where he was. 

“ _ Bucky, drop the knife.”  _

Heart plummeting, he wasn’t looking at Pierce at all. It  _ couldn’t  _ have been Pierce. The grip on his wrist was firm but far too gentle. The  _ concern _ on the face of the man standing in front of him was something he’d  _ never  _ seen with Pierce. When his sight snapped back into focus, he was staring into Steve’s wide, scared eyes.

Standing barefoot in the living room, he was holding a knife to  _ Steve’s  _ throat; the real Steve—  _ his  _ Steve. And  _ Steve was bleeding.  _ Blood seeped down Bucky’s wrist from a cut on Steve’s hand. 

Oh  _ God, what had he done, what was happening?  _ This was a nightmare; This was every worst-case scenario Bucky’s subconscious had ever forced upon him. Emergency lights flashed red behind his eyes. His ears were ringing. 

Part of him wanted to flinch away— expecting to be reprimanded; another part  _ knew he deserved it _ . He’d gladly accept punishment for this if it came. He’d done the  _ one thing  _ he swore to himself he’d never do again— he’d put Steve’s life at risk; and he’d rather die than do it again.

In a moment of panic, Bucky turned the knife, pressing it against his own throat. He braced for pain; for the bite of the metal.

Steve was  _ frantic, _ pulling at Bucky’s wrist;  _ begging. “ _ Drop the knife  _ now. Bucky, please.” _

Hands shaking, he loosened his grip, allowing Steve to disarm him. The knife clattered across the room. This felt far too much like a post-electrocution haze. He needed to fucking pull himself together instead of standing there staring at Steve with his mouth hanging open— instead of shutting down.

Bucky was confused,  _ horrified,  _ and on the verge of losing it, but he let Steve cautiously cup his face with his good hand.

“ _ Where  _ did you get that?” Steve’s voice broke. Tears welled in his eyes.

Bucky had to think about it. He had to  _ really think,  _ but  _ thinking _ brought him back. Along with the present came the harsh reality of the situation.

“I.. think I took it from Natasha,” Bucky said, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him—  _ ashamed and guilty.  _ Steve was bleeding. He’d  _ hurt Steve. What was wrong with him? What kind of fucking monster was he? _

“I  _ hurt you,”  _ Bucky choked, stone faced and unreadable until he crumbled— until his breath hiccuped and tears started pouring involuntarily down his cheeks.

“Just nicked me, I’m fine. Bucky, it’s not your fault,” Steve pulled him firmly against his chest. He stroked Bucky’s hair with his good hand, avoiding getting blood on his clothes. 

Bucky was so touch-starved that the gentleness, the show of affection, sent him over the edge and he was  _ sobbing _ . He didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve it. He could have  _ killed Steve; he did not deserve this. _

“What’s happening to me?” Bucky’s knees gave out. He could barely breathe through the tears. They sank to the floor together, Steve pulling Bucky into his lap, soothing him, brushing hair from his forehead. “I’m sorry,  _ fuck,  _ I’m so sorry, Steve.”

Steve knew he had to be strong, no matter how much he wanted to break; no matter how much this felt like being trapped under the ice— like _drowning._ But the knife.. the knife had thrown him. He hadn’t seen Bucky this bad since he’d asked Nat to come help, and now was not the time to fall apart. 

“Thought you were him,” Bucky murmured, head tucked under Steve’s chin. Tremors wracked through him. His teeth chattered like he was cold.

Steve didn’t have to ask who he meant. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered, over and over again, rocking Bucky gently. He’d give the knife back to Natasha as soon as possible. They didn’t need it in the house.

Bucky's tears were soaking through Steve’s t-shirt, but at least he was letting it out. He tended to hold too much inside. (If he wasn’t careful, it would eat him up until he was empty.)

Digging his fingers into Steve’s back, Bucky said—mostly to himself, “I don’t do that anymore; I don’t.” To Steve he said, “I feel so out of control.” Bucky clung to him.

“I get that. God, I get that,” Steve  _ knew _ this panic all to well. He knew what it was like to wake up and forget what decade he was in. He knew how jarring nightmares could be— how it was hard to separate them, sometimes, from the present. He knew how it was to let his mind wander, allowing the worst of the past to come back to haunt him in the form of freight trains and mountains and Bucky  _ not knowing his face.  _

Steve tried to get Bucky talking about good things. “Focus on me. Just on me. I’ve got you,” Steve murmured. “Buck, do you remember what you told me when I’d apologize for getting my ass kicked, or tripping up the stairs, or falling on the pavement?”

Bucky’s body trembled. He remembered being small; maybe 11 years old, using tiny hands to clean the scrapes on Steve’s tiny knee. Steve had bawled his eyes out, so used to consistently feeling like a burden. He had wiped away Steve’s tears.

Bucky nodded.

“Told me never to apologize. Not to you,” Steve said.

“That didn’t stop you,” Bucky hiccuped. He took some deep breaths as Steve chuckled and ran fingertips up and down his back. He was dizzy, weak, almost how he remembered it felt to be drunk. Underneath it was a feeling he couldn’t place; something  _ sick  _ and  _ sour  _ and  _ scared _ . He tried to regulate his breathing, matching it to Steve’s.

He wanted  _ out. He wanted everything to stop. He wanted to stop hurting people, he didn’t want to be alive, he didn’t belong here. _

“Knock me out,” Bucky muttered against Steve's shoulder.

If the knife had thrown Steve, Bucky’s statements were just as shocking. “Buck..”

_ “Please. I know  _ you have a sedative that’ll work on me _ ,”  _ Bucky begged, worrying the fabric of Steve’s shirt between the fingers of his metal hand. “Need to stop thinking, ‘m not safe.”

“That’s what you want?” Steve asked softly. Bucky didn’t like the idea of being drugged—  _ hated  _ when Tony had to put him under. But, early on, Steve had made Bucky promise to come to him if he ever felt like hurting himself again.

“Please.”

Steve kissed his forehead. He didn’t  _ know  _ if it was the right call; the  _ correct  _ way to cope with things. This didn’t seem like the kind of feeling you could just  _ sleep off.  _ But there was still a weapon in the house and Bucky was begging, looking up at him with such intensity Steve felt like he might shatter. 

And Steve could lose everything,  _ everything, but he couldn’t lose Bucky;  _ Bucky who deserved some  _ semblance  _ of peace, some  _ fucking rest.  _ Bucky who deserved far, far more than what this life had given him. 

So, Steve helped Bucky on the couch— not his room, not somewhere the door could lock. Injecting him with the hulk sedative, he let Bucky lay in his lap until he passed out; and even after.

Steve didn’t want to move, but Bucky would be out for a few hours and he needed to call Nat; he needed to call Sam. And he needed a few minutes to cry in private while he cleaned the already healing cut on his hand.

The emptiness he’d seen in Bucky’s eyes scared the living shit out of him. On the phone with Sam, Steve didn’t know whether or not to call this a suicide attempt. Had he been a little slower, he didn’t know whether Bucky would have slashed his own throat— if Bucky really was a split second away from just being  _ gone.  _ His legs were shaking. 

Sam let himself in the apartment, finding Steve, an emotional person on a good day, in a state. The contents of all the drawers lay haphazardly on the kitchen counters.

Sam hugged him; told him recovery wasn’t a linear process, but Steve was worried that they’d be taking 2 steps forward and 3 steps back forever. They didn’t speak while Sam helped him put the kitchen back together.

Nat felt  _ horrible _ , like the whole thing was her fault, regardless of how many times Steve told her it wasn’t. She had  _ no idea  _ how Bucky could have taken her knife off her without her noticing. Apologizing half a million times, she came to take it back. Bucky was  _ good—  _ he moved silently, like smoke. It  _ wasn’t  _ her fault.

.

Bucky woke up a few hours later groggy and dazed with Steve beside him on the couch. Blissfully lethargic, he heard Steve sigh.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve murmured.

“Hey, dumbass,” Bucky smiled back, placing a hand over Steve’s face and patting his cheek. He wasn’t fully awake but his body was fighting the sedative. He was still pretty far down, caught in between alert and going back under. Limbs heavy, he clamored clumsily into Steve’s lap and settled his head in the crook of Steve’s neck.

Grinning lazily with half-lidded eyes, his fingers latched onto the fabric of Steve’s shirt— something to hold him afloat. Steve stroked his hair.

Bucky smiling like this— so content and at peace in the sedative’s lingering haze— was so different than the times he’d been drugged in Tony’s lab. He wasn’t lashing out or scared waking up. Steve could only hope this meant things were improving— if only a little. This was the comfort and safety Bucky deserved to feel.

His demeanor reminded Steve so painfully of how Bucky would be when he got drunk during the war. 

Bucky had always been a bit of a light weight when they’d grown up—no matter how much he  _ pretended _ not to be—but those days he seemed to have built up a tolerance. Steve noticed that he’d drink and  _ drink  _ to get a buzz. Bucky blamed it on watered down liquor at the time, but Steve knew now that he had been feeling the effects of Zola’s experimentation.

A hundred times; a hundred different memories of Bucky celebrating the end of a mission, drunk off his ass. Around a fire with the commandos, he would always wind up plopping heavily in Steve’s lap, resting war-weary bones in the familiarity of his embrace. Bucky’s eyes would crinkle with mirth when Steve would “oof” out a breath in surprise. 

Bucky would murmur a comment along the lines of “You’re sturdier than I remember”, every time— like he couldn’t get over it. He’d laugh drunkenly against Steve’s chest at a story one of the other men had told.

The way Steve was never able to hide the fondness in his expression — it was  _ glaringly  _ obvious his feelings weren’t platonic. It  _ radiated  _ like the warmth of the fire in front of them. Steve loved the way the flickering flames caught Bucky’s eyes and cast an amber glow on his skin.

Dum-Dum or Morita would give Steve a smirk or a wink when Bucky would press his face to his neck. They kept the inclination they’d undoubtedly had within the team, though— never thought differently of Steve or Bucky. They only ever made little, good-natured jabs about the two probably being off somewhere cuddling. 

Morita had said to Steve once that the entire captured 107th probably would have been wiped out that day had Bucky not been captured with them. If Bucky was a little less charming, if Steve was a little  _ less in love,  _ no one would have ever come for them— and they’d all be forever indebted to that fact. He ended by saying Bucky and Steve were good soldiers, amazing teammates, even better friends. So, if Bucky and Steve wanted to share a tent or a foxhole, none of the Commandos would ever judge. 

(Aside from a few pecks here and there, sleeping together in the most innocent sense of the word— nothing ever happened. Despite how much both of them wished it would. It never felt like the right time, but the feelings were there; they didn’t have to verbalize it. Steve would say ‘Buck,’ and Bucky would say ‘I know.’ And that was it.)

In the present, in the dimly lit living room, Bucky shifted in Steve’s arms, forehead creased with confusion. Bucky was starting to recall the reasons he’d been put under in the first place. The throbbing pain behind his eyes was coming back.

Steve’s right hand was resting on his thigh. Bucky picked it up in both of his, turned it gently palm-up. He ran his metal fingertip across the mostly healed cut between Steve’s thumb and forefinger. Bucky felt  _ heavy, sick, exhausted.  _ He closed his eyes, preparing to apologize again, but Steve spoke before the ‘I’m sorrys,’ could pass his lips.

“See, good as new already. Told ya it was just a nick,” Steve insisted.

Bucky disagreed, the scar looked like it was a little  _ deeper  _ than a nick, but he wouldn’t argue. He just held onto all that  _ guilt  _ for later. 

This was serious. He was sure something was going to give. There was going to be a point where Steve had had enough— a last straw; the end of the line. Bucky was surprised they hadn’t already surpassed it. 

“You sending me back?” Bucky wouldn’t blame him, not in the slightest.

“Never,” Steve murmured. He wanted to say  _ this is your home, this is yours as much as it’s mine, it’s yours, it’s yours, as long as you want it. _

“Not after all I’ve done?” Bucky asked, incredulous.

Steve wasn’t guiltless—  _ clean—  _ either. He hadn’t been ‘ _ God’s righteous man’  _ for a very long time. He’d fallen from grace just like Bucky had, and it was a long way down. Maybe history and fate looped together, connecting over and over—the same but  _ opposite _ forces. Fire and ice. Maybe they were two sides of the same coin.

Steve shook his head. “We’ve all made unforgivable decisions. All we can do is try to live with that— to  _ do better.” _

Running his thumb across Steve’s knuckles, Bucky murmured a soft agreement. (In passing, he was still concerned that his nerves were fucked—that he’d never experience sensations the  _ way  _ he used to, but it was warm in Steve’s arms.)

“I know how hard you fight, Bucky. I’m so proud of you,” Steve said quietly. So proud, so proud. He was  _ so full of pride for Bucky he could burst.  _

Bucky huffed, burying his face in Steve’s shirt. He would remind Bucky a million times, every single day if he had to, that Bucky was  _ strong, and good and worthy—  _ that he wasn’t  _ broken  _ and it  _ wasn’t his fault.  _ Hopefully, one day, Bucky could start to believe him. 

Bucky treaded softly the next few days, but he didn’t slip again. 

.

When Bucky dropped the bombshell he was reading a book about mindfulness. In a too-big beige sweater that used to belong to Steve, he was curled up on the window seat and illuminated by the setting December sun. Steve was making them dinner, thinking about what to get Bucky for Hanukkah. (Bucky had offered to help cook, but in all honesty, Steve wasn’t sure if he was ready to trust him with any kitchen utensil. Not yet.) 

Steve couldn’t help but glance over and admire how soft he looked, his hair freshly washed and pulled back in a tiny bun, a few strands at the front falling into his face.

Bucky looked up, sensing eyes on him. Steve felt foolish pining over his friend the way he had before the war, like a lovesick teenager. He looked away quickly. 

“We used to sleep in the same bed,” Bucky swallowed, “was that real?” His fingers tapped nervously along the spine of the book. 

Steve’s heart squeezed painfully, like the time he fell backward off a swing as a child. This knocked the breath from his lungs just the same.

Steve didn’t know which timeframe Bucky was referring to— when they were children, or teenagers, or in their twenties. He decided on the latter. “Yeah Buck. It was real. We couldn’t afford to keep the heat on and you were worried I’d freeze to death.”

“Yeah.”

Steve went back to the simmering chicken and rice soup he’d put on at Bucky’s request. (Steve tended to jump at the suggestions Bucky gave him for meals— anything to coax him into eating more frequently.)

Bucky tried to read a few more paragraphs, but then put his book down suddenly as if the whole subject was bothering him, brow crinkled in confusion. 

“No, that ain’t it. I mean, yeah I didn’t want ya to get sick. But I liked it. I liked being with ya,” His Brooklyn drawl was more prominent than it had been even a few weeks ago. He  _ sounded  _ like himself. 

Steve was taken aback. He remembered those nights. The cautious, gentle brushes of fingers on cheeks when no one could see them. The hesitant stolen pecks on the forehead; the night before Bucky left for England. Never anything too much out in the  _ open.  _ Never anything that could get them into trouble. (Or arrested. Or dishonorably discharged. Or killed.)

He’d been so scared Bucky wouldn’t remember— or worse, that he’d remember and it wouldn’t have meant to him what it had to Steve. To Steve, it meant everything.

Bucky was staring at him across the kitchen with a gaze so piercing, eyes so bright and blue it would have been sacreligious to compare him to anything but an angel. His book lay discarded, knees tucked up to his chin, his face contorted in an expression that was as raw and vulnerable as Steve could ever recall seeing on him.

“I remember I used to go dancin’ with a lot of dames. Hated it,” Bucky continued.

“I.. thought you liked dancing,” Steve remembered how jealous he’d been— not that Bucky went on more dates than him, that Bucky had gone on dates  _ without  _ him. God, it hurt.

“I liked dancin’. Didn't like the dames. Wish I coulda danced with you,” Bucky felt like his skin was  _ electric.  _ He was practically buzzing. Only knowing how to feel things in extremes, his emotions were thrown into overdrive. He wanted to keep talking and tell Steve everything he’d ever felt. “Even though you couldn’t dance for shit.”

Steve, who wasn’t normally one to be at a complete loss for words, didn’t know what to say. His brain couldn’t catch up with his racing heart. Opening and closing his mouth, trying to get himself to  _ speak  _ and stop looking like an idiot, all he could think was “Bucky.” 

It caught in his throat, came as a broken whisper. This man, this brave man — this wonderful man that remained  _ good  _ in spite of what the world had done to him. Steve felt like he was going to black out. 

“I loved you. I  _ love _ you. Still. I never forgot,” Bucky’s voice so low, so  _ sure _ . “They could never take that from me.”

No one could, Bucky thought. Not his father, not the army. And sure as hell not Hydra. He hoped everything wasn’t ruined in saying so.

Steve didn’t say anything, which was fine. It was fine, it was all fine. It was  _ okay—  _ Steve didn’t have to love him back; in fact Bucky couldn’t ever expect Steve to feel that way. Resigning himself to that, he felt  _ weak  _ just the same. In the same way he knew the sun would rise and set, Bucky knew that this was  _ it  _ for him. Steve Rogers was his endgame. He’d never wanted it to be anybody else. 

Bucky had to bite his tongue to keep himself from crying.

“ _ God, Bucky,  _ I love you, too. You know I do. Always have,” Steve choked. He  _ loved  _ him,  _ he loved him.  _ It was Bucky— it was every version Bucky had ever existed in. It was Bucky just as much now as it was 70 years ago. “Shoulda said it when we were younger,” Steve admitted. Though, he thought of all the other ways they’re been saying it through history.

_ ‘I’m with you ‘til the end of the line,’  _

_ ‘No, not without you,’ _

_ ‘that little guy from Brooklyn, I’m following him,’ _

_ ‘I’m not gonna fight you, Buck,’ _

_ ‘Be safe,’ _

Steve always thought those words felt solid, immutable, like they carried the weight of fucking wedding vows— and maybe that’s close enough to what they were all along. Maybe ‘I love you’ didn’t hold up— wasn’t  _ enough  _ for them in the first place. 

Crossing the floor, Bucky crushed Steve against his chest. “Are we out of time?” His voice was muffled by the material of Steve’s shirt.

Steve rubbed his hand up and down Bucky’s back, shaking his head furiously, willing the tears not to fall. (Why was he crying? He felt like he was always crying these days.) Cradling the back of Bucky’s head with his hand, he tangled fingers in his hair.

Pulling back partially, Bucky looked up at Steve. (He’d never get tired of looking at him; the warm gold of his hair, the green flecks in the blue of his eyes, the crooked quirk of his smile. Even before the serum, Steve had always been perfect to him.) He’d walked through the fire for Bucky over and over again. Bucky didn’t know how he could possibly be deserving of it.

“Know I’m not worth all this,” Bucky had said the same thing a million times.

Shaking his head again, Steve furrowed his brow. Bucky’s hands gripped at his forearms. 

Steve wiped the tears from under Bucky’s eyes with his thumbs. “Shut up, you punk. You are worth  _ everything _ .” 

Steve’s head was practically  _ screaming ‘ _ I’m here let me love you, let me look after you. Please,  _ let yourself be taken care of.’  _ Bucky thought he had to get by on his own, but he never had to. If Bucky needed him to be strong and steady, he would take some of that burden from him. Looking into his eyes, Steve was  _ begging,  _ ‘ _ please  _ let me be strong enough for both of us, just this once.’

And then Bucky was cupping his face in both hands, kissing him with so much intensity that it nearly knocked Steve backwards— that his lips would surely be bruised afterward. Pulling Bucky in by the belt loops, he slipped hands to his hips. __

Bucky, face still wet with tears, tasted like  _ the sweetest  _ salt and  _ sin _ ; like the warmth from the sun. The kiss only lasted a handful of moments, but Steve was already  _ drunk  _ with it.

Bucky rested his head against Steve’s chest and breathed in the scent of laundry detergent from his shirt.  _ Horrifying  _ as it was letting himself be this vulnerable, it was  _ so necessary. Steve told him that he didn’t need to be brave and tough all the time.  _ Everything felt so fragile;  _ he  _ felt fragile.

Steve pressed another kiss to the top of his head. And Bucky  _ felt it _ . This was perfect, this was enough. 

They sat on the balcony after dinner, though they couldn’t see the stars through an impenetrable blanket of clouds. Talking well into the night, Bucky smoked and Steve held his hand.

*

The cushions stayed on the couch that night; Bucky could no longer stand the distance he’d built between them— the space that had once felt sturdy now felt hollow.

Steve was jittery, gripping the sides of the sink in the bathroom after he had washed his face and brushed his teeth. He didn’t want to encroach on Bucky’s space, even though he’d been invited in. Even if it was technically his bed. Even when they’d been in this position a thousand times before. He was terrified he was overstepping or somehow taking advantage of the situation. But he was just a man after all, and he missed the comfort of physical contact, innocent as it was. (Innocent as he would  _ ensure  _ it was going to be, at least for now.)

Steve didn’t know why he felt like this, like he was a teenager again, giddy and nervous, heart in his throat. (He could have chalked it up to being out of practice for so long, but really he knew he’d never felt this way with anyone else.)

Of course everything was different now, but it felt just like coming home. 

He vividly remembered the night before Bucky shipped out for England.

_ He’d said his goodbyes at the Stark exhibition, expecting Bucky to be out all night dancing with those dames. To his surprise, Bucky had stumbled through the door at half past midnight, buzzed and sad. He could have very well gone to his own bed, but instead he climbed in with Steve and let him tuck his head under his chin. (They fit together a lot differently then, Steve’s frame was so slight.) _

_ Bucky was crying. He said he would miss him. He begged Steve once again to stop lying on his enlistment forms—told him that he didn’t need to get himself killed to prove anything to anyone. Steve couldn’t bring himself to tell Bucky that he was leaving in a few weeks for basic training; that they wanted him for a special project. That he was finally important. (Later, he ended up putting all of that in a letter that Bucky never received.) _

_ The thought of death loomed over them; the heavy uncertainty of war. The guilt of lying by omission and going against what he’d promised made Steve restless. _

_ He’d lie to the government all day long, but lying to Bucky never sat well with him. _

_ Bucky stroked his hair until he fell into a fitful sleep, but when Steve woke up in the morning, he had already gone, leaving him to wonder whether it was all a dream.  _

_ The only tangible proof that Bucky had been there at all was a torn page from Steve’s sketchbook on the nightstand with the words ‘be safe’ scrawled in slanted handwriting. (He kept it with him all through the war, but it must have gotten destroyed when he’d gone under the ice.) _

Steve splashed cold water on his face to bring himself back to the present.

In his room, Bucky was curled up on the far side, (it was still his side of the bed. And Steve had  _ maybe,  _ inadvertently, been leaving that space open all this time.) Bucky lifted the covers, an invitation to settle in beside him. They were just facing each other, not even touching. The closeness proved to Steve how heartbreakingly the  _ same  _ Bucky looked. Apart from the tiredness of his eyes, the stubble, the length of his hair, he was Bucky. It was in the downward bow of his mouth, the dimple in his chin, the crinkles by his eyes. Through the gray darkness, illuminated by nothing but the city lights outside the window, he could even make out the tiny scar on his temple from where he’d gotten slugged by a baseball when he was 15. 

Heart pounding in his ears, Bucky laced his fingers with Steve’s, shifted, and tucked his head under Steve’s chin. Steve couldn’t even complain about the coldness of the metal arm that leached into his skin where it was pressed against his waist, because Bucky smelled like mint toothpaste and pine soap and  _ warmth.  _

Bucky exhaled against the nearly burning skin of Steve’s chest as Steve carded his fingers through his thick, brunet hair.

In the lull of moments like these, it was so easy to forget how screwed up they both were. Steve could close his eyes and pretend the storm howling against the windows didn’t sound like a freight train, and that Bucky didn’t have panic attacks and nightmares, and that he himself wasn’t technically an enemy of the state. It would have been fine — it would have been  _ perfect  _ if their world wasn’t always on the brink of coming down around them. 

Bucky slept through the night for the first time in years.

*

He woke up the next morning with panic welling up in his chest, choking him until he was able to get his bearings. Where was he? Did he fail a mission? No, no. He was okay. He was safe. He was with Steve. The arms around him weren’t restraining him. Steve’s long eyelashes tickled the skin of his chest with every blink, alerting Bucky to the fact that he was awake.

It was distant, it was hazy. But the sensation was there. He tried to cling onto it.

Bucky took several slow, steadying breaths and let restless fingers run through Steve’s hair, closing his eyes against the light coming in through the window. The storm hadn’t passed.

“You okay?” Steve asked.

Bucky nodded.

“You didn’t wake up last night.” Steve shifted to look up at him. 

“Thinking about other things, I guess.” Bucky’s voice was sleepy, slow and deep. Particularly, he was thinking about how the last time they’d slept  _ like this _ , they’d been in a dugout during the war. But he didn’t say so out loud.

Steve winked at him before sitting up and saying something about going to make coffee. Making a noise of protest in the back of his throat, Bucky caught Steve around the waist, pulling him back. 

“How’s about I’ll make the coffee if we can just lay here for 10 more minutes.” 

“Mm, 15,” Steve wagered, deciding to skip out on his morning run.

“Deal.” 

The sky was slate gray and rain pounded against the window. It couldn’t seem to stop raining; like the world was ending. It  _ could  _ have been ending for all they cared— but then again, they weren’t that fucking lucky.

“Stevie,” Bucky murmured.

“Mm?” He let his eyelids flutter closed again and tightened his grip around Bucky’s waist. 

Bucky really didn’t want to ruin whatever this was, but he couldn’t keep skating around the issue. It wasn’t fair to either of them. The longer he held off on it, the harder it was going to be to bring up. “We gotta talk about what’s gonna happen when Hydra comes back for me.”

“Hydra fell, Buck,” Steve’s heart twisted, not wanting to talk about this here; not in their bed.

“You honestly think they’d just let me go?” Bucky scoffed.

Steve didn’t say anything for a moment because well, no, he  _ didn’t  _ think they’d give up Bucky so easily _.  _ From what Steve had seen, there were more agents out there— presumably  _ someone  _ was keeping tabs on him. Instead of answering the question, he said, “you're safer here than anywhere else.”

“Can you promise me somethin’?” Bucky traced fingertips across Steve’s shoulder.

“I won’t let them take you,” Steve swore. He  _ meant  _ that. If—  _ when—  _ it came to a fight, they’d raise hell. Whatever it took.

“No,” Bucky huffed out a breath. “When they come back, I want you to kill me.” 

And fucking hell, Bucky always knew exactly what to say to break Steve’s heart.

“ _ No.”  _ Steve sat up abruptly, slamming his back against the headboard. Bucky scrambled up after him. 

“If it comes down to it —just promise me,” Bucky pleaded. Eyes glazed over, threatening tears, he looked  _ determined. _

Steve felt a physical pain in his chest. Here Bucky was, begging him for death rather than facing the idea of recapture. It was an impossible request. He’d lay down his life for Bucky a thousand times, but  _ Bucky’s  _ life? Bucky’s life he couldn’t take the gamble on.

Not knowing how else to put it, he cupped Bucky's face in both of his hands, looked him directly in the eyes.

“Listen to me. God help them if they ever come for you because  _ I will not  _ let them take you.” The sincerity of his voice broke Bucky’s resolve— struck him down.

Bucky couldn’t stand to look at the hurt on Steve’s face. Sitting up, he pulled on a pair of black sweatpants (ones that used to be Steve’s), and padded out of the room without a backwards glance. 

Though, he did put on a pot of coffee, as a peace offering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the positive response, it means the world xx


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky thought coffee machines were his favorite part of the future— so much better than the shit they’d had in the war. Back then, the only reason he could tolerate it was to keep warm in the dead of winter. Now he  _ liked  _ the taste. Setting the machine to ‘brew’, he retrieved two mugs from the cabinet— the one that said ‘worlds best grandpa’  _ must  _ have been a gift from Nat.

“In Romania, there was a café a street over from my building I’d go to on Sundays. The woman who owned it gave me free papanasi sometimes because I reminded her of her son. I liked it there,” Bucky filled the two cups, Steve’s black, his with cream.

“I’m—,” Steve started, stepping into the kitchen in the process of pulling on a long sleeved gray t-shirt.

“Don’t you say you’re sorry,” Bucky said.

“I  _ am,”  _ Steve insisted.

“It ain’t your fault,” Bucky shook his head. The fact that he would have had to leave anyway hung in the air. He was a fugitive just like Steve. He missed Romania, but he didn’t miss the panic that came with it. Bucky liked it  _ here  _ better, although he wasn’t sure he knew what to  _ do _ with safety once he’d found it.

“Tell me more about it,” Steve accepted the mug Bucky handed to him. 

Stirring his coffee with his spoon, Bucky leaned his hip against the counter. “I had a cat,” he recalled with a soft smile. When they were young, Bucky had begged his mother for a cat. He’d never been allowed one— the youngest two of his sisters were allergic. “Little black one. Technically, she wasn’t  _ mine _ . She was a stray, but she let me feed her,” Bucky said. The coffee was still bordering on hot enough to scald his tongue. He swallowed it down anyway. “People were superstitious. No one else would touch her.”

(Steve was sure there was a metaphor in there somewhere.) At Steve’s encouraging nod, Bucky continued. “Wasn’t much, but I was safe there for a while. Until everything happened.”

Until police sirens would compel him to look over his shoulder; until he suspected that people were watching his apartment. It was the first time he had felt, however fleetingly— however  _ misguidedly _ — that he was out from under Hydra’s thumb. Bucky’s fingers tapped nervously against the mug. He wished it wouldn’t have gone down like that, but now, he was grateful it had been  _ Steve _ to find him first.

Steve slid open the balcony door so they could sit outside and enjoy the fresh air. Though Steve bundled up in a blanket, Bucky remained shirtless, opting to feel the cold. Steve didn’t mention the goosebumps on Bucky’s skin or the pink in his cheeks.

Steve didn’t know if he deserved heaven after all of this. Maybe he didn’t— maybe it didn’t matter. It didn’t  _ matter  _ if heaven wouldn’t have him because Bucky would. Looking at Bucky in the chair next to him, under cover from the freezing, icy rain that seemed to be shifting to snow, Steve thought ‘yeah, maybe I’d damn my soul for you.’

Everything around them was gray and foggy. It was  _ quieter  _ for a morning in the city— in the way the winter sometimes vacuumed the sound out of wide open spaces. It seemed like New York wasn’t even awake. It was  _ nice,  _ though Bucky had never liked snow. 

Snow used to be a physical embodiment of the cruelest months— the times Steve was most vulnerable; most likely to get sick. Snow made it harder to get around in the city. He remembered trudging up from the docks to their little apartment in the dark, biting cold, worried Steve would have caught pneumonia in the time he’d been at work. (Steve always told Bucky to stop fretting over him so much, that Bucky himself was more likely to slip on icy stairs and die rushing home. Bucky would complain that Steve’s  _ list of chronic illnesses  _ wasn’t something to be taken so lightly; he’d wrap them both up in the thick quilts Steve’s Ma had left them.) 

Snow was a reminder of the winter he spent in the trenches, using his breath to warm his hands. Steve would huddle close to him during the frigid, long nights, his body heat essentially a furnace. (In retrospect, it was a result of Zola’s experimentation that Bucky stopped being so cold as time went on. He didn’t  _ really  _ need the extra heat as desperately, but he’d never turn Steve away.) 

Snow was a reminder of his captivity in Russia. There, it seemed never ending, making it hard to understand the passage of time. It suffocated any signs of life for six months out of the year. 

But today the sleet was okay. Bucky didn’t mind the way tiny flakes of snow would blow in and cling to his hair because Steve’s hand was warm in his, and he felt  _ good  _ in spite of everything. 

“Used to think about running away with you all the time. Before the war,” Bucky said. How wonderful would it have been; to abscond with Steve to a place no one would find them? To just disappear? He ran his thumb over Steve’s knuckles. 

Steve hummed in agreement. “Would you leave with me now?” It was hypothetical of course; they couldn’t. Steve felt a tinge of sadness at his words, knowing Bucky missed the home he’d made for himself in Romania. If things were different, he thought he would have taken Bucky back. But  _ really _ , if Steve was being honest with himself, he was as stuck in New York for the time being as Bucky was. It wouldn’t have been a  _ brilliant  _ idea— going it alone— and they were on thin ice with the government as it was. 

“If I knew you’d be safe, in a heartbeat,” Bucky responded.

“One day. One day I’m taking you somewhere.”

Bucky smirked, leaning his head back and staring at the clouds. “You like your job too much.”

“I like you more,” Steve smiled. “We’re 100 years old. Maybe it’s time to settle down.” 

He remembered Natasha, joking with him, ‘when you didn’t want to retire, I thought you just really liked the job. Then you gave it up.’ Maybe Nat was right and he needed to  _ get a life.  _

“Okay.” Bucky placed his empty mug down on the glass table between them; indulged the fantasy a while longer. “Not a city. Somewhere we can see the sky.”

“Anywhere,” Steve cooed as Bucky lit a cigarette. He was left staring at Bucky’s perfect face, remembering how kids at school used to call him ‘ _ pretty boy’  _ to mock him. It was a mystery how that was ever an  _ insult.  _ Bucky was the prettiest boy he’d ever seen. 

“Will you cut my hair like you used to?” Bucky asked. He’d been thinking about it for a while. Wanting to feel like himself again, he figured a haircut was a good place to start. It was a lot less reckless than the  _ other  _ things he’d be willing to do to feel something.

“Course I can. You sure?” Steve was always,  _ always  _ asking him if he was sure— always so good to him. His best guy.

“Yeah, ‘m sure. Feels like a good time. Thought about choppin’ it all off and I figure you’d do a better job than me,” Bucky laughed.

Stepping back inside, Steve sat him down at the kitchen table. (He was comfortable enough to let Steve close to his neck with scissors. Steve counted that as another win.)

Upon seeing the end product — Bucky’s hair cropped shorter on the sides, a bit longer on the top, the little curl that would flop onto his forehead— Steve was shaken to his core; like he’d seen a ghost. 

“I like it,” Bucky smiled, looking in the bathroom mirror and running his fingers through his hair. Before, staring at his reflection made him  _ nauseous.  _ He wasn’t himself— didn’t  _ belong _ to himself. His very appearance was evidence of that. He was nothing but a cog in a violent machine. But now, if he didn’t focus so much on his body— on the scars and the sharpness of his bones and the exhaustion in his face— it was almost like being  _ whole  _ again. When Steve came up behind him to hug him around the waist, to kiss the back of his neck, Bucky sank into his embrace. 

“It suits you. Anything suits you,” Steve said.

Bucky knew getting more comfortable with physical contact was going to be a  _ process —  _ the aversion to touch was a side effect of what had been done to him.  __ It wasn’t that he didn’t love being close to Steve. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him. Bucky needed to re-learn how to let his guard down; to decondition himself to expect pain and violence. If it was Steve, though — if it was Steve touching him, it was okay. If he needed time to adjust, Steve was more than willing to give that to him.

“Tony’s throwing a party tomorrow night. For Christmas. It’s mainly just for the Aven—,” Steve cut himself off. “For all of us. Do you wanna go? Could be good for us both to get out more.”

Bucky was silent, looking at Steve through the mirror, considering an array of excuses — though he knew Steve wouldn’t have needed an excuse from him. He would have taken a ‘no’ at face value,  _ never  _ would have pushed him.

“You don’t have to say yes. But, I never did get that dance,” Steve mentioned more quietly — the dance that had only ever existed in his dreams, the dance celebrating the end of the war. 

Bucky’s lips lifted at the corners. “You’d dance with me in front of all those people?”

“Yeah. I would. Things are different now. No one’s going to haul us off to prison,” Steve chuckled. “Well, at least not for  _ that. _ ”

Bucky nudged him with an elbow, smirking.

“But, if you don’t want to, we can stay in. Thor gifted me some alcohol that can  _ actually  _ get us drunk as an early Christmas present. We could have our own party.” 

Turning to face Steve, Bucky thought that sounded better. That sounded amazing. The more he considered it, the more he wondered if healing didn’t need an audience. He had Steve, a few good friends, some hobbies. He didn’t want the eyes on him. He didn’t need to make appearances to prove he was stable— that he wasn’t an empty vessel in a room full of people. This was enough. “Would that be okay? Staying in?”

Steve  _ beamed  _ at him. “That would be perfect. To tell ya the truth, I didn’t really want to go anyway.”

So that night, instead of the pomp and circumstance — the obnoxious extravagance of Tony’s penthouse— Steve lit candles around the apartment. He put up white Christmas lights above the door and around the balcony railings. Turning the overhead lights down low, everything felt so  _ warm _ ;  _ safe.  _ There was a tiny Christmas tree on the coffee table, a menorah on the windowsill, their various personal possessions and knick-knacks in the bookshelf, Bucky’s houseplants. It was  _ theirs.  _ For the first time since moving into the Tower, Steve  _ knew  _ this felt like  _ home _ .

At 9:00 sharp, Steve stepped out of his — _ their —  _ room dressed in a nice pair of slacks and a navy blue button down. Bucky was in a similar state, clean shaven, hair styled the way he’d done it in the 40’s when he had a date, black dress shirt. 

Steve let out a low whistle, which coaxed a laugh out of Bucky. He felt like this should have been ridiculous; dressing up with nowhere to go, but it wasn’t. It was just them. It was everything.

“You clean up nice,” Steve felt nearly  _ dizzy.  _ He wondered if this is what all the dames felt like when Sergeant Barnes had turned up at their doorsteps to take them dancing. He wondered if they’d felt as lucky as he did right now. 

“Easy, Rogers. The way you keep sweet talkin’ me...” Bucky reached up to straighten Steve’s shirt collar and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. 

_ Steve wanted to do this forever—  _ to shut the rest of the world away. They popped the champagne, but Bucky was already buzzing before Steve had even handed him a glass of Thor’s  _ premium Asgardian spirits _ .

Steve had texted his  _ sincerest _ apologies to Tony, informing him that Bucky and he would not, in fact, be attending that night. Then, he plugged his phone into the speaker and selected ‘ _ Pennies From Heaven’  _ from his playlist. He hoped Bucky liked it— it was an assemblage of old songs and new. Hoping it would take them back to better days, he’d even added some of Bing Crosby’s earliest Christmas songs.

Though Steve still had two left feet, he took Bucky by both hands, spun him around, dipped him. The way Bucky grinned and  _ laughed,  _ pressing his forehead to Steve’s was validation enough that they’d made the right decision staying in.

To Steve’s utter shock— _divine_ surprise— Bucky sang along to the songs he knew; the way he _used_ to before the world had taken him apart. Bucky used to sing all the time around their Brooklyn apartment. During the war he’d sing that embarrassing ‘ _Star Spangled Man With a Plan_ ’ song because he thought it annoyed Steve. (Bucky's singing had never annoyed him.) 

Bucky was here with him— they were  _ alive.  _ They were tipsy, giggling like schoolboys —  _ happy _ . They fell into easy conversation that wasn’t tinged with sadness. Bucky was  _ cracking jokes.  _ There weren’t words for how this felt besides  _ earth-shattering.  _ Steve wasn’t sure whether he could blame his sappiness on the alcohol, or if that was entirely Bucky’s doing— though if he was a gambling man, he’d wager on the latter. 

Well past midnight, when they’d just begun to lose the buzz in their veins, Bucky placed palms on Steve’s still-rosy cheeks. 

“Wait here,” he giggled. It sounded silly. Of course Steve wouldn’t go anywhere. Feeling light and  _ floaty,  _ he added a song to Steve’s playlist. Steve stood with that adorable little crinkle of confusion in his brow. Bucky wanted to kiss it away; he took him by both hands instead.

“What’s—”

The living room was beginning to fill with soft, folky guitar music. It sounded almost like a lullaby as Bucky guided Steve’s right hand to his waist; held his left hand, leading him. 

‘ _ I am not the only traveler  _

_ Who has not repaid his debt, _

_ I’ve been searching for a trail to follow _

_ Again. _

_ Take me back to the night we met,’ _

“ _ Buck,”  _ Steve sighed. This felt like what he had spent 80 something years waiting for— for the right partner. Bucky’s eyes looked so dark in the lowlight. Steve pulled him in closer by the small of his back and was met with a tiny, surprised smile. Aside from the quirk of his lip, Bucky looked more serious and intense than anything else; the way he’d looked when they’d gotten back to base camp after Steve had freed his unit—  _ reverent  _ was the only real way Steve could think to put it. Like St. Sebastian— like  _ light  _ would illuminate from within him if he spoke. 

Brushing metal knuckles against Steve's cheek, everything felt so temporary— like he was living on borrowed time. He wanted to submerge himself in this while it was still here in front of him. They swayed back and forth in a small circle, Steve obviously making a conscious effort not to step on his feet. Closing his eyes, Bucky knew he wouldn’t want his toes trod on by anyone else.

_ ‘And then I can tell myself _

_ What the hell I'm supposed to do _

_ And then I can tell myself _

_ Not to ride along with you’ _

This brought him back. As Bucky dropped his head to Steve’s shoulder, Steve imagined if things were different— if they could have danced together without repercussions in the 40’s, if they’d lived to see the end of the war. He imagined them dancing in their uniforms, celebrating with all the other soldiers returning home to their dames. Although, Steve knew that was never possible— and it was painful to think about. So, realistically, this is the only way he could have pictured it happening—just them— the only two people in the world. 

The way it started with  _ just them _ ; the way it ended.

_ ‘I had all and then most of you _

_ Some and now none of you _

_ Take me back to the night we met _

_ I don't know what I'm supposed to do _

_ Haunted by the ghost of you _

_ Oh, take me back to the night we met’ _

Warmth collecting behind his sternum, Bucky murmured, “Kinda miss being able to put my chin on top of your head. But this is good, too.”

“This is good,” Steve repeated, letting out a breathy laugh, feeling  _ bold  _ like on the Ferris wheel. He was teetering on the edge of still being drunk, but not quite. 

Bucky tangled fingers in the back of his hair, pulled him down to his lips. Eyes still closed, he said “perfect,” against Steve’s mouth and pressed closer. 

Steve could die right now. He tried to memorize the feeling of Bucky on him, chest to chest— the feeling of his heartbeat. If they could have a few moments of reprieve in the chaos, happiness a few seconds at a time, he would take it. Steve was all electricity and shaky hands in the  _ best  _ possible way.

_ ‘When the night was full of terrors _

_ And your eyes were filled with tears _

_ When you had not touched me yet _

_ Oh, take me back to the night we met’ _

When Bucky pulled back to look at Steve, it was the  _ eyes _ that did him in. In all their years of friendship they’d never had a disagreement that lasted more than a few days because Bucky  _ caved _ when he got that golden retriever look, all the openness and earnesty. How was he ever going to repay Steve for the kindness— the  _ patience _ ? He wished he was better with words; could articulate exactly what this meant to him. Slipping his hands to Steve’s waist, thumbing over his hips, Bucky had half-given up on the dancing. 

“Stevie,” He was thinking about the things that Steve had given up for him; his reputation, his security, his title, the trust of his friends. They’d stopped swaying, a new song was playing and Steve was looking at Bucky like he’d make any of those choices all over again if he had to— he was looking at Bucky like he was  _ worth something.  _

“Wish I could tell ya that there’s a way we come out on the other side of this, but I  _ can’t.  _ I might never be okay. Then what? I’ll ruin you,” Bucky thought he already had, though it felt  _ stupid  _ and mean to say. Steve made a face like he was about to disagree, so Bucky continued speaking. “I’m too fucked up to be fixed.”

It  _ hurt  _ him to admit. It  _ stung  _ his chest. Bucky wanted nothing more than to be the way he was before— to be 17 and invincible and  _ alive.  _ But Steve told him once that sometimes the best thing they could do is  _ start over.  _ God, he wished he didn’t have to start over. 

Steve smoothed his hand down Bucky's back, pulled him out of the tailspin he was falling into. It was a good minute and a half before either of them spoke at all— like Steve was gathering his thoughts.

“Hey… my loving you isn’t contingent on you being ‘fixed’. Understand? If all we do from here until forever is take things day by day, I can handle that,” Steve held Bucky’s face with warm, calloused hands, tempting his eyes up. “I want you to get better because you fucking  _ deserve  _ to. I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear before,” Steve murmured. 

It was a love so loud, so indisputable— too-big for his body. Bucky was consumed with it. His heart was pounding loud enough that all he could feel around him was his pulse. (Maybe it was Steve’s heart he was hearing? He didn’t know. He just knew he wanted to be  _ closer,  _ wished his body wasn’t screaming at him to move away. _ ) _

Feeling like he couldn’t breathe, it was  _ almost  _ too much; but the gentleness of Steve’s mouth made up for the searing anxiety that dripped down the back of Bucky’s neck and into his bones. He reminded himself that the hands on him were  _ Steve’s — his Steve’s. _

Bucky used to be so forward, albeit not usually when it came to  _ Steve. _ Though, now, he wasn’t  _ good  _ at asking for what he needed in  _ any _ context— not for help, not for anything. Maybe Hydra had taken that part of him. But he swallowed down his nerves and stammered through it. “I..I  _ want  _ you.”

Steve, who was so, so endearingly naïve— just like he’d always been— didn’t get it for a split second until it clicked. Steve, who was flushed, out of breath, eyes half-lidded and dazed as he stared at Bucky like he hung the moon. “You.. you’re.. are you sure?” 

Bucky hummed a ‘ _ yes’.  _ (He hoped he wasn’t too rusty after all these years.) One hand on the back of Steve’s neck, the other slipping lower on his waist, their mouths moved together clumsily because Bucky was  _ smiling _ . Steve pulled away briefly only to run his hands down Bucky’s chest, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

Lord knows how many times Steve had thought about it; how— on the rare occasions he had  _ good  _ dreams— some of his best ones started out just like this. Bucky pulled Steve back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him again. 

Fumbling with the buttons, Bucky cursed the fact that they’d picked _nice shirts_ to wear; that the holdup was _severely impeding_ his ability to see Steve’s perfect chest. If he wasn’t _trying to be considerate_ he would have already ripped Steve’s shirt open. Steve helped him with the last of the buttons, shrugged the shirt off. 

Bucky groaned low in his throat, pupils blown. “My  _ God,”  _ he sighed, not able to keep his hands to himself. 

Music played, though they’d long since forgotten to listen to it. Softer this time, Steve ran a thumb over Bucky’s cheek. “You’re so fucking beautiful. So beautiful,” He murmured. He meant it, every scar, everything. He didn’t want Bucky to leave this feeling empty. Steve wanted him to feel loved, completely— loved like he  _ deserved to feel.  _ “Love you so much. So much.”

He remembered falling,  _ crashing, _ headfirst in love with Bucky at the tender age of sixteen. How  _ aware _ he was that his life completely changed trajectory at that moment. He wouldn't take anything back. 

“Love you, too, Stevie. Loved you my whole life,” Bucky kissed his neck, his jaw.

Tugging at Bucky’s belt loops, it didn’t even  _ matter  _ how far out of his depth he felt, Steve was about 5 seconds away from bursting into flame.

“We’ll go slow,” Steve promised, reining himself in. He didn’t want anything about this to be synonymous with Bucky’s years of torture— he needed this to be soft; he needed Bucky to be comfortable.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathed. This was Steve. Steve wouldn’t hurt him; Steve would look after him. He was safe— he had never been safer.

Eventually, they made it through the apartment to their bed, Bucky stumbling backwards, pulling Steve onto the mattress with him— with Bucky's back against the headboard, Steve was on his knees in front of him. 

Like he was on the edge of a  _ cliff _ , staring out at a storm-dark sea, Bucky reached out clumsy hands and unbuckled Steve’s belt, trailed his fingers up his flushed chest. God, he wanted to be close to Steve, he wanted  _ everything  _ with Steve. Steve could  _ have  _ him. Steve could take everything from him, Steve could take his soul.

Steve pulled Bucky closer by the hips, easing him further down the bed. Falling back against the pillows, Bucky lifted his hips so Steve could slide off his pants. He shoved aside all the alarm signals that warned Steve was  _ too close, too close, too close,  _ even though his skin was starting to prickle to the point of discomfort. 

Steve handled him gently— fingertips just barely brushing skin. Bucky’s head lolled back, exposing his throat, as he pressed his cheek into the sheets. He gripped Steve’s short hair, guiding him to kiss his neck. It was intoxicating. If there was a heaven— if Bucky had earned his place there— he couldn’t imagine it would get any better than this.

But, as Steve started to move lower, to kiss down his chest, Bucky’s stomach began to sink, like the ocean was coming up to take him. He bit back a whimper, he bit back the  _ guilt.  _ He’d started this because he thought he could handle it — but he didn't know if he wanted Steve to stop  _ touching him _ because it felt like a reminder of  _ other things _ , or if he wanted to beg Steve to be rougher, to  _ hurt him _ .

He didn’t know, he didn’t know— but he couldn’t breathe when Steve slid his hands up his bare thighs, skated over the waistband of his underwear. He trusted Steve, who was looking at him with so much compassion. He  _ trusted Steve  _ but he was so fucking scared. His mind was at war with his body; his mind was getting violent. 

And something in him just..  _ broke. _

Suddenly, Bucky was suffocating. He wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t cry, but his skin was crawling and it wasn’t even Steve’s fault— he was being so tender with him, kissing him slow.

Bucky wanted to tear himself out of his skin— to evaporate or break apart. His arms went slack, hands falling to his sides. And Steve was tensing— Steve was looking at him for affirmation, hesitating, pulling away. Steve was  _ talking to him _ , but Bucky couldn’t register any of the words he was saying. 

Bucky heard himself say, “keep going”, though he didn’t know if the voice came from the part of him that wanted to feel  _ alive _ or the part that wanted to  _ die _ — wanted to suffer. 

He thought he’d be okay; he  _ wanted  _ to be okay— but if this was going to happen now, he knew he was going to have to grit his teeth in order to get through it. He wanted to take it further— he  _ did _ . He wanted Steve, but he could hardly speak through the panic rising up in his throat. 

He could endure it, though. He would. He hiked a knee up higher on Steve’s hip, blinking spots out of his vision and feeling like his mind was  _ checking out _ — trying to protect him. Both heavy and light headed, he fixed his eyes on the wall behind Steve, over his shoulder. Steve wasn’t even touching him anymore— Steve was talking to him and he couldn’t hear through the heartbeat in his ears. Everything was going blurry.

Steve was starting to panic. Bucky, lying under him weak, mostly-naked and vulnerable— was prepared to give up his body like a surrender. He wouldn’t let Bucky hide his face; Steve needed to  _ see  _ him, because he wasn’t talking— he wasn’t  _ answering.  _ With a completely  _ blank _ expression, Bucky had tears in his empty eyes, silently running down his face. His hands were balled into fists. 

The only thing Steve had wanted was Bucky to be comfortable and feel safe and this  _ wasn’t _ that. “Bucky,” Steve was trying to keep Bucky’s eyes focused on him, holding his weight off Bucky with one arm, cupping his cheek with his other hand.

Bucky breathed in through his nose, obviously trying his best to stay present, but he’d started trembling. “You can.. you can have me. Just do it.” His voice was so small— it didn’t sound like his.

Steve sobered immediately; whatever buzz left in him from the alcohol had been shocked out of his system. Pulling back, he sat up heavily with Bucky’s knees on either side of him.

“Breathe, Buck…” Steve had known they were done the moment Bucky stopped responding, the moment his expression went vacant. Steve felt ready to cry over the fact that Bucky  _ clearly wasn’t all there,  _ but kept insisting he continue— thought he had to lie there and take it— had to  _ white-knuckle it  _ through this experience. Bucky’s eyes… Bucky’s eyes were going to haunt him, like a consolidation of his worst fears. Where there should have been light or a spark there was just..  _ nothing. _

It took a few moments, but, to Steve’s relief, Bucky was coming back around— back to himself. He was starting to focus, trying to breathe normally again while he stared up at the ceiling. “I’m good Stevie— swear.” Bucky blinked wet doe-eyes at him, propping himself up on his elbows. “Keep going.”

Leaning his forehead against Bucky’s and cupping the side of his neck, Steve whispered, “ _ No,  _ baby. You’re not feeling okay.”

Bucky huffed, defeated, and buried his head in the pillow. His human arm felt like pins and needles, as though it had been asleep. Everything was white hot. and his body ached with tension. Steve carded his fingers through his short hair and took a deep breath.

Bucky sighed, “I’m sorry,” still sounding dazed and far away. His breathing hitched and shuddered, like he was breaking apart.

“Don’t apologize.” Pulling the blanket up over them, Steve wished he had the words to convey exactly how he’d  _ never  _ take anything that Bucky wasn’t willing to give. Nothing he could say would be enough to carry that weight. Actions would suffice better. He rolled onto his side. “I love you, You’re okay. You’re always,  _ always  _ allowed to change your mind.”

Steve remembered all the nights spent huddled together in their shitty Brooklyn apartment as Bucky stared at him. He traced his fingertips across Steve’s jaw, his cheek. Gingerly, like he was afraid he would break him. (He did that sometimes. Steve thought it was almost like he was trying to memorize his face.) 

“I  _ do  _ want this, Stevie. I just—,” Bucky cut himself off, brow furrowing, self-hatred simmering just under his skin. He hated that he felt  _ defective.  _ He hated the man he’d become after the Fall. In a lot of ways, Bucky felt like he was still falling. “What do  _ you  _ want?”

“I want you safe and healthy.” Steve didn’t hesitate, staring at Bucky through the darkness. That’s all he’d ever wanted. “Need to know you'll tell me if things aren’t good,” Steve insisted, taking Bucky’s hand. If they ever tried this again, Steve had to  _ know _ that he wasn’t going to inadvertently hurt him. Steve asked him to  _ promise,  _ so he did.

Steve had the kindest heart and Bucky was  _ overwhelmed _ . 

Struggling to hide the waver in his voice, he said, “Thought about you a lot when I was dyin’. _ ”  _ Both before the war and after the war. Bucky turned over onto his right side sluggishly and slipped an arm around Steve’s waist, metal fingertips along skin. “Do you remember when you broke me out of the camp?” 

“Of  _ course _ ,” Steve said. Simultaneously one of the most  _ painful  _ and most  _ wonderful  _ days of his life, it was branded in his memory. He couldn’t forget it if he tried. 

“Thought you were a fuckin’ angel. Don’t even know if I believe in heaven, but I thought you were an angel sent to take me,” Bucky said seriously. “Felt the same when I saw you on the bridge. Don’t know what I did to deserve ya, Stevie. Don’t know how you keep finding me. My guardian angel.” Bucky was getting tired, starting to drift off.

Feeling hot tears burn at the corners of his eyes, Steve swallowed down the lump in his throat. He’d been through war for God’s sake— he shouldn’t be tearing up at the way Bucky called him  _ angel.  _

Bucky turned onto his stomach, shoving his arm under his pillow. In response, settling against him, Steve draped an arm over his shoulders and shifted so that their noses were nearly touching. Bucky smiled sleepily when he kissed his forehead. 

*

In Bucky's nightmare he was on his knees, shackled,  _ muzzled  _ like an animal. He couldn't see where he was— it was pitch black all around him, but it was  _ cold. He was so cold.  _ He tried to scream but started to choke. In passing, he wondered if Steve would find him— would find his  _ body. _

_ Steve. _

Trying in vain to pull his arms from the shackles, he didn’t care if his wrist broke under the pressure. 

He was jarred into consciousness, into the brightness of reality, by a banging on the wall. Looking around wildly, he registered that Steve was still beside him, but there was someone in the doorway. Bucky sat up, throwing his arm across Steve as a barrier until his eyes focused on Sam. 

“Woah, easy man. I  _ did  _ knock.” Sam took a step back.

“What do you want?” Bucky’s voice was flat as he pulled back his arm. His heart raced. Steve started to wake up.

“What's goin’ on?” Steve propped himself up on his elbows, squinting in the morning light. 

“Been lookin for you, Steve. We couldn’t reach you on your phone and ...” Sam trailed off.

“And you thought I hurt him,” Bucky stated matter-of-factly.

Sam shifted uncomfortably. “It did cross my mind.” 

Bucky didn’t say anything. It  _ stung,  _ but he deserved it.

“My phone’s in the living room,” Steve remembered, yawning. “Guess that’s what I get for sleeping late.”

“It’s  _ seven,”  _ Bucky whined.

“Yeah, put some goddamn clothes on. It’s important,” Sam said, averting his eyes and leaving to wait in the kitchen.

“It’s something bad, ain’t it?” Bucky asked, catching Steve’s shoulder gently as he sat up. “That’s why you won’t tell me.”

Pulling on a pair of jeans, Steve nodded reluctantly. Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave him as he looked through his drawers for a t-shirt. In any other context Bucky might have teased him about being picky about his clothes now, but it didn’t feel like the right time. Steve kissed him on the top of the head before leaving the room. “Go back to sleep, doll.”

Of course Bucky couldn’t. He was busy connecting the dots in his head. If Steve was being this quiet about the situation, it had to have something to do with Hydra.

In the kitchen, Sam was about to start talking before Steve gave him a look that said, in no uncertain terms, ‘ _ not here’. _ Unplugging his phone from the speaker that had long since stopped playing, Steve saw there were 10 missed calls from Nat and about 50 new texts from both her and Sam. He inclined his head toward the door, implying they should take this meeting to Nat’s apartment downstairs.

“There’s something you should see,” Natasha deadpanned, bypassing a greeting when they got to her door. 

Tensely, Sam and Steve sat at the table in her cluttered kitchen; the decor did nothing to lighten the mood. Where normal people would have photographs or art, Nat had knives and other various weapons. Pulling up a chair herself, she laid out some files. Steve picked up one of the pictures — a shot of what looked like a warehouse or airplane hangar from a grainy security camera.

“I got word from my contact that one of our guys might be operating out of here.”

“Where is this?” Steve asked.

“Upstate. Too close to home. I don’t think it’s a coincidence Bucky saw someone here,” Nat responded, cracking each one of her knuckles individually. She did that sometimes — a ritual of sorts, when she was gearing up for a fight.

“So we go. Right? We pay him a visit — take out as much as we can? Can Barnes handle it?” Sam asked, rubbing his eyes.

Steve was thinking of the way Bucky had shut down the previous night. He wouldn’t put him through this — not yet. “He’s not ready.”

“Okay. Suit up.” Nat’s face said she hated to do this; but it was necessary. “Meet you downstairs in 10.” 

When Steve returned to his apartment to grab his things, Bucky was dressed, waiting in the kitchen and looking like he was rearing for an altercation to either feel useful or get himself hurt. “What’s the mission?” 

(He really  _ didn’t _ want to fight; not right now. But he  _ would _ if he had to— he’d do it for Steve. He wouldn’t let Steve do this alone.)

“No, no. No. You’re staying right here.”

“ _ Why?”  _ Bucky asked, crestfallen, feeling pathetically unequipped to deal with this. 

Steve didn’t want to pull out the  _ ‘because I said so _ .’ Instead, he made do with, “You’re not 100% yet. We need you here, recovering.” 

Bucky looked defiant, biting the back of his bottom lip and grabbing Steve’s arm when he went to turn away. They were face to face. “At  _ least  _ tell me what’s happening.” 

“We  _ may _ have found a Hydra base. This should be a relatively easy takedown, just a few days of recon and—”

“Let me help.” Bucky's stomach sank. “You don’t know them like I know them, please. This is the  _ one  _ thing I’m good at. Let me help,” Bucky pleaded. He wanted to trust Steve’s judgement. He  _ did.  _ He just thought that they shouldn't be so  _ casual  _ about this — they couldn’t go in  _ blind. _

“Look, I may not be winning any popularity contests right now. But last time I checked, there’s people  _ on both sides _ with orders to shoot you on sight. I can’t risk it.” 

Bucky knew that— he  _ knew  _ that. It was dangerous, it wasn't like going down the street. But Bucky wasn’t scared of  _ a lot  _ of things, and the thought of losing Steve was at the top of the list. He knew Steve was —or had been, at least— Captain America. He was durable now; it would take a lot to fuck him up, but he was  _ scared.  _ It was one of the same reasons he’d stayed to fight with Steve in the war.

Bucky’s words of protest died in his throat as Steve got suited up and grabbed his shield from the coat closet. Hand on Bucky's shoulder, he kissed him softly on the lips like his mind was made up; like he was already one foot out the door. 

“Be back before you know it,” Steve promised. “ _ Please don’t do anything stupid.”  _

_ “‘How can I, you’re takin’ all the stupid with you,’”  _ Bucky mocked. 

Steve froze with his hand on the doorknob. “You remember that?”

“I remember  _ everything _ ,” Bucky said. The last kiss Steve had given him wasn’t enough. He pushed Steve against the door, hand behind his head to keep him from hitting it, and kissed him again— kissed him  _ better.  _ Breaking away, he ran his thumb over Steve’s full bottom lip 

“Come back to me, yeah?” Bucky asked. He was wondering why every time they kissed felt like a ‘goodbye’.

Steve nodded.  _ Hell  _ if that didn’t make it damn near impossible to leave him.

*

Sam promised to stay behind to check on Bucky, after some mild complaining about  _ taking one for the team.  _ They could get along for a few days with just Steve as the muscle and Nat as the brains, but Sam was the only other person in the Tower that Bucky  _ remotely  _ trusted.

Steve could handle himself. Bucky believed that. Steve would be okay. Left alone, though, it was painfully obvious to Bucky that he wasn’t coping with everything as well as he’d thought. Steve kept him grounded. (He’d  _ always  _ kept him grounded.) The next few days passed strangely; every moment was like teetering on the edge of a lucid dream. Bucky could have texted him. (He  _ should  _ have.)

As it turned out, cleaning calmed him down— organizing, straightening. He did the laundry, the dishes, swept the floor. He even scrubbed the bathroom tiles when he’d run out of other things to do because when his mind wasn’t occupied it tended to wander. When his hands weren’t occupied, they were dangerous. 

Bucky volleyed between being  _ sick _ of being in pain all the time and being comfortable reveling in the way it hurt. He hated the part of him that wasn’t  _ stable.  _ He hated the part of him that was afraid. He hated that he felt like a dame waiting for her fella to come back from war. 

Sam stopped by one afternoon to drink coffee at the kitchen table with him. The longer he sat there, the less resentment seemed to be in his expression. He didn’t ask Bucky to talk, which was a relief. Bucky wasn’t in the mood to be coddled or pandered to.

“So you’re my babysitter?”

“Yup,” Sam said, popping the P. 

Eventually he couldn’t help himself from saying, “Steve doesn’t trust me alone.” It wasn’t a question; not even a little bit. 

“Nope,” Sam took a long sip of his coffee.

That was fair.  _ Bucky  _ didn’t trust Bucky alone. Looking out the window, he wondered if a fall from this height would kill him or leave him in the uncomfortable position of having to explain why he’d jumped.

“That shit you pulled with the knife..” Sam trailed off. And  _ oh.  _ Bucky felt the weight— the  _ guilt, the anguish  _ of that one. “Were you trying to—,”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” Bucky snapped. Sam shut his mouth; looked at him in silence, eyebrows raised. Bucky winced and swept a hand over his face. “Don’t know. Maybe I was. I.. I hurt him, and then I was on autopilot.”

Sam nodded. Twirled the coffee in his cup. “Hey, I don’t actually hate you, ya know. If Steve’s not here and you’re feeling that way, you can call me. You’re one of us, now. We don’t just leave soldiers behind.”

“Don’t call me that,” Bucky said, instantly regretting the sharpness in his voice. Sam muttered an apology; the earnestness on his face said he meant it.

“I—” Bucky breathed through his nose. “Thank you, Sam.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sam replied.

Not knowing if he was referring to the bite in Bucky’s voice right now, or his suicidal tendencies, or the things he’d done to survive his years of captivity, Bucky nodded. God, how he wished everyone would stop  _ saying _ that, though. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, but the blood was still on his hands. Maybe he was just a puppet; but  _ maybe  _ he should have tried harder to cut the strings.

He kept that sentiment to himself, trying not to alarm Sam enough to tell Steve. Bucky didn’t say that it felt like he was dreaming — like he was always half-a-fucking-sleep.

“You been eating?”

Bucky guessed he looked rough, if Sam was asking. “Forgot.”

Sam made him a peanut butter and jelly without saying anything else, but Bucky didn’t eat it until after he left. 

As time ticked on, Bucky couldn’t write the feeling in his gut off as paranoia anymore; since Steve was looking into it— that made it  _ real.  _ Convinced Hydra would storm his safe haven at any moment, shatter the windows, and take him, Bucky saw everything as a threat if he looked at it long enough. He let his mind wander to places he’d normally kept closed off. The backs of his eyes buzzed with things he’d done— things he’d  _ never _ done. His head hummed, his ears rang.

Shaking would start in his hands —hands that didn’t feel like his own— until gradually it was his whole body trembling. This was a regular occurance, and if Steve was there he would have talked him down. Bucky told himself he  _ really  _ needed to learn how to deal on his own. He breathed like Sam had taught him, named objects in the room, counted backward from one hundred by sevens. (As much as he hated to admit Sam was right, sometimes that was enough.) This time it wasn’t. He drew the curtains, shut off the lights, and covered his ears. All he could do was wait for it to pass.

When the panic eased, the intrusive thoughts persisted. He remembered the burn of electrocution—it was bright blue behind his eyes. He remembered Steve breaking him out of Hydra’s facility during the war. 

Specifically, he remembered how Steve had sent him first over the bridge to safety, everything in flames around them. How Steve had urged him to go on and he’d shouted back,  _ ‘no, not without you.’ _ He thought about how he should have died for Steve right then and there; gone out a hero.

After, Steve had asked, “ _ How about you? Are you ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death? _ ” What Bucky had replied was, “ _ Hell no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight; I’m following him. _ ” 

(What he’d  _ meant _ was ‘I’d follow you anywhere.’)

Tucking his knees to his chest in the corner of the room, Bucky thought that everything he touched, he ruined — his  _ family,  _ Steve. Disaster was inevitable. Something was bound to happen. He’d already cost Steve his reputation, his stability, his  _ life _ . How could he justify putting Steve’s future at risk too? How could he stay here when every second was allowing his friend to be in danger. Bucky was a lot of things, but he  _ couldn’t  _ be that fucking selfish. 

There was a Russian saying his handlers sometimes used when he’d lash out — when he needed to be  _ snuffed out  _ before he got too bold — ‘extinguish the spark before the fire.’ Maybe it applied here too. Maybe he should cut and run before anyone got hurt. Should he leave a note? Or just disappear? Which would hurt less? He could practically hear Steve’s voice telling him what a dumbass he was being, how he’d promised not to do anything stupid.

In retrospect, he should have done so many things differently. He should have told Steve how he felt when they were still young, before everything had gone to shit. He should have stopped being so afraid of it. Could they have run away together; lived a quiet life? Instead Hydra was always one step behind him, like a fucked up game of tag. What if they came back for him? What if Steve never did? Bucky felt like he wasted whatever second chance he’d been given.

During the days Steve was gone, Bucky started working out past the point of exhaustion to _prove_ to himself that _he_ _could still fight._ The ache of his muscles, at least, was something he could control.

Time passed simultaneously too quickly and too slowly. He could practically feel hands on him, prodding at him. He was almost positive someone must have broken in because the voices sounded so real. He reminded himself that he was  _ safe  _ here — he was even starting to feel what genuine happiness must be like.

Sometimes, he missed Romania. He wondered what had happened to his journals and the Captain America trading cards, the stray cat that used to live outside his building. Though he’d never tell Steve, part of this felt like trading one prison for another. Part of him wondered if maybe  _ he  _ was the prison, and that scared the shit out of him. He’d never done well in a cage.

And if he closed his eyes he was in a cell.

_ He was on a table, arms restrained. He couldn’t turn his head. His ribs were splotched black and blue from the last time he’d disobeyed orders. Every move he made burned, right down to breathing. He was in so much pain he could barely form complete thoughts. The only thing he could think was ‘when will this be over, please, God let this end.’ How much longer would he have to endure this? He would black out soon. His mouth was dry— he hadn’t been allowed water. The metal door clinked open and dread leached into his soul. He was already so tired, so sore, please just let him rest.  _

_ Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about Steve, the look on his face when he had fallen— it had to have been a few months before. Steve was out there somewhere, surely. Steve was okay. He’d see Steve again. He’d make it through and he’d see Steve again. _

_ “What is your name?” the Hydra agent asked.  _

_ Bucky spit at them, bracing for the retaliatory blow to the head. When it came, he set his jaw and breathed through his nose, keeping his face unreadable.  _

_ “Your name.” _

_ He gritted his teeth. They had been through this before. “My name is Bucky Barnes.” _

_ Another blow. Bucky breathed through the pain. He was stone; he was strong; he wouldn’t break. _

_ “You will respond to ‘Soldat,” the handler replied.  _

_ “My name is Bucky,” he snarled, eliciting another strike, but he smiled in the handler’s face, tasting coppery blood in his mouth. “My name is Bucky Barnes. I can do this all day.” _

On the third night, Bucky became aware that he was  _ seeing  _ things — shadows in doorways, movement in windows. He wouldn’t look in the mirror, afraid of what he would see in his own face. He sat on the floor of the shower, letting the water soak him. He wasn’t going to cry again — he refused; and he didn’t have anything left in him.

Bucky didn’t know how long he sat there, naked and shivering, but it was long enough after he’d turned the water off for his hair to be dry again. Is this what his life was going to be like forever? Just barely making it one day at a time.  _ God, he hoped not. _

He hoped Steve was okay. 

*

It shouldn’t have gone the way it did.

Once Steve and Natasha reached the warehouse after nearly a week of recon, things weren’t as expected. It was uncomfortable. They both could feel the heaviness, the foreboding. It just didn’t seem  _ right.  _

Running point while Clint followed behind protecting their backs, Steve and Nat had broken into what was supposed to be the location of one of the  _ last _ Hydra bases. They had incapacitated one security team on the ground, and as soon as the path was clear, Nat shorted out the alarm system. 

Standing in what looked more like an abandoned airplane hangar, it was seeming more and more like they’d gotten bad intel. “Fellas, don’t wanna alarm anyone but the security on the first floor was surprisingly lacking,” Nat said in a hushed voice, gun drawn.

Glancing around, still running on adrenaline, Nat and Steve were quiet, back to back. They expected something to happen, but nothing did. It was  _ unnerving. _ Steve gripped his shield, thinking that it  _ was _ suspiciously easy getting into this place. Maybe someone had tipped them off. “There’s  _ nothing  _ here.”

“I think we fell for the bait,” Nat said.

“Uh, incoming,” Clint sounded panicked and staticky in Steve’s earpiece. 

“Son of a  _ bitch,”  _ Natasha complained. When Clint yelled for them to “ _ get out now _ ,” there was nowhere to go. The ground gave way and glass rained down on them. 

Steve came to a few moments later, coughing dust out of his lungs. Everything was on  _ fire.  _ Steve groaned, rolled over painfully and punched the ground. ‘Shake it off, Rogers.’ Steve thought to himself, but his eyes were starting to close again.

Part of his brain was insisting he  _ give up —  _ that he was  _ nothing  _ without the shield; stupid for thinking he could still do this. Another part of him thought ‘ _ that’s not true.’ _

Steve struggled, gasping as more ceiling debris came down on him. Bucky’s words ran through his head.  _ ‘Don’t say that, you were worth something before.’  _ Steve heard his mother’s voice,  _ ‘Because, and you listen to me Steven, you  _ **_always_ ** _ stand up.’ _ He heard Natasha yelling his name.

Steve got his shaking legs back under him, shifting heavy chunks of concrete. His ears still ringing, he limped to Nat, who was struggling to get out from under a collapsed beam. Steve’s side burned, shrapnel from the fallout bit into his skin, there was blood on his hands, though he couldn’t tell where it had come from. Dragging the beam back, he helped Nat to her feet and they waded as quickly as they could through the burning wreckage to the outside. Clint was there, helping dig them out.

Steve thought maybe he was in shock, though  _ Nat  _ was the one with the concussion. Not processing a lot of what was happening, he held a towel to stem his bleeding as Clint drove the getaway car back to the city. They were running away with their  _ tails  _ between their legs. Natasha was angry, promising she was, in fact, going to shoot the messenger.

All Steve kept saying was, “We should have  _ known better.” _

They should have known.

*

On the seventh night, Steve stepped through the door, discarding his shield and helmet. He was bruised and bloodied, wanting nothing more than to scoop Bucky up in his arms and  _ sleep.  _

Bucky was standing in the darkness, tensed and ready to strike. His sharp, “ _ you’re not real _ ”, felt like a slap in the face. “You’re not him.”

“Yes I am,” Steve ground out, wincing.

“I’ve watched you come through that door a hundred times, no you’re not,” Bucky insisted.

“I’m real, doll.” Steve could have cried.

Bucky crossed the floor in a few steps until he was eye to eye with Steve, searching his face, splotches of black and blue skin along his jaw, his split lip. It  _ looked like Steve — _ like Steve in every back alley he’d ever been beaten up in. It looked like Steve covered in soot and blood.

Bucky reached out his hand and pressed it firmly against Steve’s cheek. He felt solid and warm and alive. 

Steve guided Bucky’s hand down to his chest, until his palm rested above his heart, and held it there.

“I’m right here, I’m real.” 

If Bucky  _ focused,  _ the steady beating kept him present. His senses were catching up to him, everything felt concurrent again. “Prove you’re  _ my  _ Steve.”

“When you were 14 you broke Jimmy McMillan’s nose for shoving me in the hallway,” Steve smiled sadly, erasing any doubt Bucky had in him. Steve was here and Steve was  _ hurt _ ; Steve was dripping blood on the floor.

“ _ Shit,  _ Steve, sit down,” Bucky pressed, shock setting in. His injuries must have been  _ bad _ if they hadn’t started to heal already. It must have been deep.

“It’s okay, ‘s not so bad,” Steve said.

“Get this off.” Bucky tugged at Steve’s suit, alarmed. “Show me where you’re hurt.”

Bucky helped him limp to the bathroom and sat him on the counter. Steve painfully pulled his suit down to his waist — trying not to wince, trying to minimize his injuries. He was good at that, he’d done the same when he was chronically ill in his youth— downplayed how sick he really was. But he himself was taken aback by the depth, the amount of blood. He hadn’t really gotten a good look at it until now. It would have been wiser — he probably  _ should _ have gone elsewhere for medical attention — though, if he did, it would have been clear he hadn’t stopped working. 

“I can do that, Buck.” Offering to take over the task of staunching the bleeding, Steve held out his hand, but Bucky smacked it away, insisting  _ he needed stitches.  _ It was bleeding  _ slow _ , but it wasn’t going to heal up properly for a few days. Steve couldn’t even remember how he sustained that one— something had probably hit him in the explosion.

Bucky picked shrapnel out of his side with a pair of tweezers, dabbing at it with antiseptic-soaked gauze. 

“What the fuck happened?” Bucky asked. Steve was durable. Steve was strong. He knew Steve didn’t necessarily need his  _ protection—  _ but this felt like every time Bucky had to clean him up, pick him up off the sidewalk when he’d had his ass handed to him. And Bucky was still reckoning with this being  _ his fault. _

“Hydra base. It got out of hand.” Steve didn’t want to say that it was an ambush, that they were  _ punching above their weight class.  _ (It was okay, Steve had been punching above his weight class all his life.) He knew if he didn’t answer truthfully, though, Bucky would go looking into it himself. Barely registering the sting of peroxide, Steve laboriously leaned his back against the wall. “Just weren’t expecting it.”

“I should be out there. It’s  _ my _ fight.”

“Please, let’s not argue now. We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” Steve said, exhausted.

Bucky bit his lip. He  _ wanted _ to say that he couldn’t allow Steve to take these chances on him. If he could do  _ one  _ good thing in his  _ life _ — if there was  _ one  _ way he could atone for his sins— it would be keeping Steve from harm. Instead he said, “Okay.”

Once he was fairly confident Steve wasn’t going to keel over onto the tiled floor— once his wounds were dressed and bandaged, Bucky was standing between Steve’s thighs, pulling Steve in by the back of the neck and kissing him hard. Under all the anger Bucky harbored for himself,  _ he’d been so scared Steve wouldn’t come home. _

Steve tasted like gunpowder and blood and sweat; his hand on the small of Bucky’s back felt like a live wire, his cheeks burned. Bucky could  _ feel it, he could feel it, he could feel it, God he could fucking feel something other than numb.  _

Steve pulled him in by the waist to kiss him again.

As much as he wanted to spend the whole night kissing Steve, Bucky needed to get him cleaned up; to get him to bed. He dampened a washcloth and dabbed at the dried blood and soot on Steve’s face. 

Bucky helped him change into a pair of joggers, helped him stumble to bed 90 percent asleep before he even hit the pillow. Steve’s ears still rang with the sound of explosives. 

Running his fingers across Steve’s cheek, his jaw, his collarbone, Bucky couldn’t keep himself convinced that Steve was alive and not just a figment of his imagination. The steady heartbeat under Bucky’s ear, the tickle of breath against his skin was the constant reminder he needed.

He remembered when they were kids in Brooklyn and Steve was perpetually sick in bed. In those days, he’d needed the reassurance Steve was still alive, as well. Bucky made up every excuse to spend nights at the Rogers' house. (Miss Sarah hadn’t needed a reason to welcome Bucky in with open arms. He’d always felt more at home there than in his own house when they’d set up the couch cushions on Steve’s floor.)

He used to turn over in the middle of the night and stare through the darkness, willing his eyes to adjust so he could watch Steve’s skinny chest rise and fall. Old habits don’t break easily. Even in the present day, Bucky laid awake most of the night.

*

When Steve woke up, he was hit with a wave of  _ nausea—  _ a result of the splitting pain. His head ached. Bucky was sitting diagonal from him on the corner of the bed, watching him. 

“I made breakfast. When you feel up to it, you should try to eat something,” Bucky suggested.

That was  _ ironic,  _ coming from him. Steve squinted at the clock; it was approaching one in the afternoon. He closed his eyes again, painfully reaching out his fingers to indicate he wanted Bucky to hold his hand. 

Obliging, Bucky laced his fingers with Steve’s, bringing his hand gently to his lips.

“Were things .. alright while I was away?” Steve asked, choosing his words carefully. Immediately he felt stupid, though, because of  _ course _ nothing was alright.

“Well I didn’t stick my head in the oven. So.”

“That’s not funny,” Steve said, irked. But he didn’t press it and Bucky didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, he insisted Steve stay in bed and rest.

Bucky felt like he should go. He should go. It was like back in the war, when they’d been under enemy fire and Steve would get hurt and Bucky would do  _ dumb shit _ , behaving impulsively.

Steve would yell, ‘you can’t get  _ reckless  _ every time I get hurt.’ Well,  _ yes,  _ of course Bucky could— and he would have said so, too, if Steve hadn’t taken him by the shoulders, looked him square in the eyes and said, ‘that’s an  _ order, _ Sergeant.’ (He didn’t often pull rank like that; it was sharp enough to sting.)

Bucky was simmering, sitting with the discomfort, the fear, anger—  _ self-hatred —  _ the entire next day. 

Steve was feeling better, though he was taking it easy at Bucky’s request. Bucky, who was sprawled out on the couch, legs propped up on Steve’s lap. (Steve was a safe pair of hands to hold him.) A rerun of a recent baseball game played on the TV, but he wasn’t paying attention. Alternatively, he’d turned his head to watch the city move outside the darkened window. Every so often Steve would yell about a strikeout. The Christmas lights cast a warm glow over everything.

It was comforting. It was familiar, but It was  _ fleeting.  _ Bucky was being selfish. Eventually, he caved and asked, “It’s worse than you’re tellin’ me, ain’t it?”

Steve’s hand stilled on Bucky’s shin. 

“Listen, I know things are dark right now—,” Steve started. It was his best Captain America PSA voice. Bucky couldn’t stand to hear it. He wondered if Steve had done any of those; pictured him pulling up a chair to ask, ‘so, you tried to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge?”

“Steve, this isn’t a fucking game. Next time you go, I’m going,” Bucky demanded.

“No, Buck.”

The buzzing of the lights was going to do his head in. Anxious energy coursing through his veins, Bucky stood up. “ _ Then I’ll go alone.” _

Steve followed him to his feet. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“ _ No,”  _ Bucky said pointedly.

_ “ _ Don’t  _ lie  _ to me.”

“I’m  _ not.  _ I’m trying to  _ protect  _ you. If there’s an army after me, I’m not  _ bringing that to you.  _ And I’m not  _ weak,”  _ Bucky shouted. He hated that he  _ needed to yell about this.  _

Steve was keeping his cool; was  _ unwaveringly  _ level-headed. “I  _ know  _ you’re not. But I meant what I said in the war. If we go down, we go down together.”

“Like  _ hell _ you’re—“

“ _ James.” _

Bucky shut up. There was a beat of silence. He could count on one hand the number of times Steve had called him by his first name— and only once before in that tone.

“...Steven,” Bucky pleaded. 

“ _ Please  _ don’t do this. Not on your own,” Steve took his hands. Bucky wanted to pull away; to hide the tears — but Steve pulled him back. Offering comfort in his arms, a chest to cry into, Steve let Bucky  _ sob. _

Bucky didn’t mention it again, but when he crawled into bed with Steve that night, he felt volatile,  _ erratic.  _ He felt like he was mourning the life he could have had. He was selfish, selfish, selfish— sick with it, down to his bones. Tossing and turning, he couldn’t stomach the thought of laying next to Steve feeling like this— as if the wickedness, the vileness would leach out of him and poison Steve too. He was  _ so fucking sad. _

He knew what he had to do. He knew this wasn’t an  _ option _ . This is the way it had always had to go. Bucky was a curse; the fucking harbinger of death.

Laying flat on his back, he felt Steve turn in his sleep, subconsciously reaching an arm out to hook around Bucky’s waist. He still looked rough, fresh bandages wrapped his torso, the bruises on his face starting to yellow. Ever since Steve had gotten back home, Bucky was waiting for a rush of relief that never came. It felt like they were still living in limbo— like they  _ would  _ be until Hydra was dismantled. 

Bucky's chin quivered but he clenched his teeth to suppress it. God, this was going to hurt; this was going to  _ hurt _ .

He had to act quickly—before he thought about it; before he lost his nerve. (What was he if not impulsive?) It was past midnight when he gingerly laced his fingers with Steve’s where his hand rested on Bucky's stomach.

Lifting Steve’s hand, he pressed a tearful kiss to his forehead and left the room without a sound. Moving like smoke, Bucky quickly dressed in tactical gear, a black coat and gloves. Weapons, on the other hand, he’d have to find as he went along. He wasn’t worried about that— he’d been  _ good  _ at bringing knives to gunfights and leaving with the guns.

He spared one last look through the partially closed bedroom door — if this was it, if this was the last time he’d see Steve he needed to make it count. He wanted to remember it; the way the moonlight lit Steve’s profile, the way thick eyelashes brushed his pale cheek, the way his mouth parted while he slept. Bucky wiped a hand over his face and extracted his go-bag from where he’d kept it hidden. He rummaged through Steve’s files, taking the useful ones. Slinging both straps of the backpack over his shoulders, he opened the glass door and escaped from the balcony, down the side of the building and into the snowy night. 

Hours later, just before day had broken, he ended up on a plot of land in rural Indiana, having looked into this location a hundred times. He’d intended on paying a visit before now, but postponing until a later date didn’t sound like a viable possibility anymore. The groundskeeper wouldn’t make his rounds for another 15 minutes. Bucky had some time. 

It made sense that she had wanted to be here in the end, not in the same plot as Bucky's father. Bucky sat down on the dead grass and snow in front of a dilapidated headstone that read  _ Winifred Barnes. _

He didn’t know if he even believed she could hear him — or even  _ would have wanted  _ to hear from him— but he needed to say these things out loud for his own sake.

“Hey, Ma.” Plucking a pebble off the ground beside him, he turned it over and over in his hands. He didn’t know where to begin, but figured he’d better start with an apology.

“I’m sorry it’s been a long time. I’m sorry I didn’t come back.” Bucky didn’t know if he meant back from war or back after he’d been kicked out. He knew it broke her heart; he knew it tore his sisters up. She had sent well- intentioned letters, but Bucky's father was a cruel man. He knew going back would have just stoked the fire, and he couldn’t let himself be responsible for the outcome. Bucky was sorry he couldn’t do more.

“Gotta tell you something. It’s been eatin’ me up,” he said, brow furrowed, watching his breath make clouds in the night air. Bucky didn’t know why this felt so important to him, but he needed to say it. Maybe he needed the closure. Maybe, in a sense, his old  _ life _ — the person he could have been— was buried under six feet of dirt as well. Maybe he was still grieving.

“I’m queer, ma,” Bucky admitted. “And Steve’s… Steve's alive and…I love him.”

(He loved him, he hoped he made it back to him.)

“I don’t know if that’s a huge surprise,” Bucky chuckled to himself. “Dad was right all along.”

Letting his head fall back, he looked at the stars— so unbelievably bright out in the country. He closed his eyes when they started to remind him too much of the one on Steve’s old shield. 

“Guess I just wanted to tell ya, in case I’m joinin’ ya real soon.” It was a relief to get it off his chest after about a hundred years. He should have been a better brother, a better son, a better man. Maybe felt so compelled to do this because, in a way, he was leaving for war all over again— going to kill some Nazis. He would go like a lamb to the slaughter because he  _ had to.  _ This felt like confronting  _ every  _ heinous thing Hydra had ever done to him; and he was going to arrive with a  _ vengeance. _

“Give my love to the girls.” Bucky got to his feet, turning the small rock over in his metal hand once more before placing it on top of the headstone. Then he adjusted the straps on his backpack, shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and disappeared into the darkness without a backward glance. He sent a single text to Steve with a burner phone before shutting it off.

‘If anything happens, I swear to God I’ll find you in the next life. Be safe.’


	4. Chapter 4

When Steve woke up the next morning, he was  _ cold.  _ He groaned and turned over, reaching beside him for Bucky’s warm body; wanting Bucky's back against his chest — wanting to leave a kiss on his shoulder before drifting off for a few more minutes. Instead he planted his palm flat against empty sheets. His eyes flew open. Disquiet settling behind his rib cage, sticky like tar, Steve sat up abruptly and kicked off the sheets that had tangled around his feet.

“Bucky?” Steve called padding into the kitchen, looking out on the balcony. The resounding silence only amplified his fear. “Bucky?” Upon unlocking his phone — seeing the message from an unknown number — his heart fell through the floor beneath him.

Bucky was  _ gone.  _ He was gone and Steve  _ knew  _ it. He could feel the vacancy in the space around him — like he’d taken part of Steve with him. Bucky had set off by himself on what was at  _ best _ a disaster and at  _ worst _ a  _ suicide mission _ . 

Every phone call went unanswered.

When Steve called Natasha, he pleaded with her to have a lead— maybe one that would disprove his deepest dread. Maybe someone had seen Bucky on the way out. Maybe one of her sources had heard something. Asking felt stupid, Bucky only would have been gone a handful of hours. Of course Nat didn’t have great news — didn't have much of anything. 

“Maybe he took a walk,” she suggested— a weak attempt to quell Steve’s rising panic — but Nat didn’t sound like she believed it. Steve could picture her on the other end of the phone chewing her nail.

Knowing deep in his soul that Bucky wasn’t hanging around, Steve resigned himself to it. Bucky had to have been long gone by now. “He’d go somewhere; when we were kids. He’d disappear when things were — when things were really bad. And it sounds stupid but I always  _ felt  _ that he’d be back. This doesn’t feel like that.”

“Where would he go?” Natasha asked. Steve thought it was more of a tactic to get him to stay on the phone than a rational explanation for where Bucky would be. It was kind of her all the same to keep him talking. He figured she was probably on her way — Steve had a history of making bad decisions under stressful circumstances. And he felt stupid. He was stupid for not being  _ present  _ enough — for not doing more to keep Bucky safe. 

“I never asked,” Steve said, remembering talking to Bucky about it once — how he used to disappear.

_ It was late—maybe 1am in their Brooklyn apartment. Steve had left the record player on low, curled up in one of his Ma’s old quilts. Summer was fading quickly. The air was becoming less sticky, but still just warm enough for Steve to sleep shirtless without eliciting a lecture from Bucky about catching pneumonia. _

_ But Bucky wasn’t there. Bucky had gone off somewhere that afternoon, like he often did when he was stressed or upset. Expecting him back hours ago, Steve couldn’t ease his worry enough to sleep. He couldn’t keep his heavy eyes closed. Heart flooding painfully with relief, Steve turned over on their rickety little couch when he heard the door unlock. _

_ Upon seeing Steve through the darkness, Bucky faltered a step. “You’re still up?” He sounded surprised—embarrassed— as he stood frozen in the entryway. _

_ Steve shrugged one shoulder. “Waited for you. Got a little scared. You’re not usually gone so long,” Steve said, voice was slow and thick with exhaustion. _

_ “Stevie.. I’m really sorry,” Bucky said. Steve noticed the way his eyes were bloodshot— the way his cheeks were tinged pink and puffy. “I was writing. I was—,” Bucky hesitated, reluctant to say more. _

_ “That’s okay, Buck. You don’t have to tell me where you go. It’s your place. It can be yours,” Steve assured. Bucky needed to be alone sometimes when things got overwhelming. That was alright. _

_ Setting his jaw and breathing out like he was on the verge of tears again, the bow of Bucky's downturned, pouty mouth quivered. _

_ Steve was immediately awake and alert. “Hey. No, pal, you’re okay.” Offering Bucky a refuge, he had lifted his quilt with open arms. _

_ Couch creaking loudly, Bucky fell into him and tucked his head under his chin. Steve could feel him shaking, holding the sadness inside himself— caging it up like it might hurt someone else. Stroking Bucky's hair, Steve let him hide his face against his skinny, bare chest. _

_ This was.. bad. This had to have been a bad day. Bucky hated crying; most of the time he kept stoic in the face of hardships they dealt with. He shouldered burdens so Steve couldn’t feel the weight of them. Steve couldn’t even imagine what would have been the final straw. He didn’t push, though. When Bucky was ready to talk, he would talk. _

_ “It’s... So you don’t worry, it’s safe there. It’s near—,” Bucky started. _

_ “I don’t want you to tell me, Buck. Keep it.” Steve shook his head. Tears stung Steve’s eyes as he trailed a hand against Bucky’s back, smoothing the fabric of his shirt over and over. “Wish you’d stop suffering alone though. You don’t have to.” _

_ There were a few moments of silence while Bucky let that sink in; the record player had started playing static. Wet eyelashes tickled Steve’s collarbone. _

_ Taking a few steadying breaths, Bucky hiccuped, “I don’t have.. a lot that’s mine— that’s just mine.” _

_ Steve decided he would never look for him there — never take that from him. Never. If Bucky could only feel sheltered in two places in the world, Steve wanted to be one of them. _

_ “You got me,” Steve murmured against his hair. Bucky smelled like outside, like the woods and greenery — warm and safe and like  _ **_home_ ** _. He nodded into the crook of Steve’s neck. _

_ “I got you,” Bucky repeated. _

  
  


“Steve. Steve? You still there?” Nat asked.

Bucky’s absence felt solid,  _ permanent _ — maybe in the same vein as his disappearances before the war, he needed to be alone to do this. Maybe that’s what this was. Maybe he  _ invited  _ the struggle of fighting on his own — felt he deserved to. Bucky had always been good at shutting people out when he needed help.

“I’m here,” Steve promised.

Natasha hung up only when she’d arrived at his apartment, immediately logging into her laptop to see if there was any CCTV footage from businesses in the area that could indicate which direction Bucky was headed. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing.

So every voicemail Steve left landed heavily into the void — like the letters he’d sent Bucky in ‘43 — the letters Bucky never would have received. He left them anyway, getting progressively less frantic but  _ more resolved because Steve knew what this meant.  _

_ “Hey, Buck. Please come home. Please. We can do this together. We can— talk about this. Don’t make any hasty decisions. Please call me back. I love you.” _

“ _ Please, Bucky, tell me where you are. You know I'd never try to stop you. I — Please. Call me.” _

“ _ Hi, doll. Just. I know your mind's made up. I understand. I understand that you have to do this. I love you so much. You know I’ll fight with you if you let me. Just say the word and I’ll be wherever you are. If not. If not… just please call me when you get to where you’re going. Tell me you’re safe. That’s all I need. That’s all I need. I love you.” _

Any time he spent with Bucky, it would never feel like it was enough. That’s what loving Bucky was; having him for brief glimmers of moments and then watching him fade away. Like a comet; blinking and missing him. Like hearing your name called in a dream and waking up alone. Maybe forever wasn’t in the hand they’d been dealt; but Steve was going to negotiate with fate for any spare second he could have.

So, he called again and he pleaded for Bucky to just  _ be careful,  _ because Bucky had always been obstinate and  _ headstrong.  _ There wasn’t going to be any talking him out of this. There had to be acceptance. Steve couldn’t provide him shelter from this — only succor. He told Bucky where he could find them, just in case.

*

Everything looked worse in the harsh light of morning — as had been the case for a lot of Bucky’s recent life. He would make impulsive decisions for temporary relief and be left to deal with the consequences later. The fallout damage from this was going to be catastrophic.

All Bucky knew was running— from the law, from his  _ feelings _ , from parts of himself he didn’t want to be left alone with. But he was tired. He was exhausted and  _ hurt  _ and he couldn’t  _ do  _ that anymore. He’d run out of road and the only thing left to do was to fight. 

He’d find the delicate balance between exquisite revenge and  _ rightfulness.  _ And  _ at least _ if he was out  _ here _ — out in the open — they’d come after him and not Steve. Maybe he’d  _ snapped  _ like Stark had said he would, but Bucky was feeling more rational than he had in a long time.

A majority of information in the files he’d stolen wouldn’t have been useful on its own, but reading over it brought back memories he had been suppressing. He’d been in this town once before.

Bucky hunkered down for the night in an abandoned barn. He hadn’t left footprints in the snow; he hadn’t left any trace at all. From the hayloft, he could see for miles out of the top window. He could hear deer moving between the trees and an owl in the eaves. Knowing how to be  _ invisible —  _ knowing how to move soundlessly — was convenient sometimes. No one would find him here even in the unlikely circumstance that they came looking.

There was nothing around, it was a ghost town — except that Bucky knew it  _ wasn’t _ . It wasn’t spirits haunting this place. If Bucky closed his eyes he could picture them moving in tunnels underground. They’d hidden like rats when Hydra fell; they were here somewhere. Bucky would find them— smoke them out — every last one of them. 

This wasn’t a  _ headquarters _ ; not by any means — this was one man. But it was a place to start. A dull ache started in his knees; he’d spent longer than he realized perched, tense, watching. Kicking his legs out in front of him with a wince, he leaned his head back against the wall. In the fading light, Bucky ate a granola bar without really tasting it. He needed to get some rest; it had been a long trip.

Something in the way darkness set over the sleepy Canadian farm town; something in the haze of the yellow-gray twilight that silhouetted trees and distant houses; in the stillness and dull roar that accompanied the vast expanse of unoccupied space, was so reminiscent of 1943 — his baptism by fire. 

_ In a hail of bullets outside of a tiny village in Italy, Bucky had  _ **_felt_ ** _ his youth so profoundly— felt it leave him. Like his innocence had been torn from his hands. Though, letting go of it— he’d left claw marks. He was so young and arrogant and out of his depth. He knew, he knew it was going to be bad, but it was far worse than he could have prepared for. _

_ Bucky remembered ringing in his ears, tripping over tree roots and falling so hard on his stomach that the wind was knocked from his lungs. Gasping, aching, burning, he pulled himself up to his feet and pressed his back to a tree behind him. _

_ Breathing heavy, he knew he needed to pull himself together. He'd always been an  _ **_excellent_ ** _ shot in training exercises; he was quick and steady. But this was so fucking real and visceral. Someone went down in front of him and the guys on his team  _ **_needed_ ** _ him. Rounds echoed in the forest; ricocheted off trees and bit into the ground beside him. Tree bark dug uncomfortably into his back. _

_ Someone shouted, “Barnes!” So he tucked his head down. Gritting his teeth through the fear and peeking through the trees, he fired over and over, allowing his training to kick in.  _

_ He’d killed. Life had ceased to exist because of him, and he knew if he didn’t compartmentalize it — if he didn’t shut up the part of himself that had watched fellow soldiers die — it would shatter him.  _

_ After, it was quiet as the grave. His chest was ice cold, like he’d left his body behind and there was blood on his face that wasn’t his. He still felt like he was holding his breath. Even when they’d advanced and made it to the next base camp — even 70 years later — he’d never stopped holding his breath. “Only the dead have seen the end of war,” he supposed, or some shit that people say. He guessed they were right, because the weight of it had never left him.  _

_ Bucky remembered months later, right after the 107th was captured. He had been injured pretty badly in the skirmish. He knew he’d lost a substantial amount of blood.  _

_ While they were trapped in the cages, he was sitting with his back pressed to the bars, one knee pulled up to his chest. His eyes would close, as he rolled through the waves of throbbing pain. One man — he couldn’t remember his name— was trying to bring him back around; to get him talking.  _

_ “Barnes. Barnes, you’ve got a dame back home?”  _

_ Bucky blinked his eyes open, just barely; feeling fire through the left side of his head— he probably had a concussion. He shouldn’t fall asleep. He shouldn’t fall asleep. If he fell asleep there was a decent chance he wouldn’t wake back up. _

_ “Barnes.” _

_ Bucky nodded. “I do,” he let out a shaking breath. He was dying, it felt like. He was dying and all he could think of was Steve — the only comfort he could find. _

_ “Bet she’s gorgeous,” the soldier said.  _

_ ‘ _ **_He’s_ ** _ gorgeous,’ Bucky thought, ‘Can’t wait to see him.’ But Bucky didn’t correct him. Instead he murmured, _

_ “Lovely. The loveliest,” trying to keep alert, to just hold on a little longer.  _

_ “Tell me about her.” The soldier shook his shoulder lightly. _

_ Bucky couldn’t help the slow smile that spread across his face, cracking his chapped bottom lip. “Bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. Blond, tiny little thing,” Bucky chuckled. So small. Bucky could splay his hand across the width of Steve’s waist — could tuck Steve’s head under his chin. Steve’s hand was dwarfed by his when Bucky had tried teaching him how to dance.  _

_ “She sounds wonderful.”  _

_ “Wonderful,” Bucky repeated, half delirious, trying to carry himself through this — to do what he had to do to survive it. He hooked dirty, bloody-knuckled fingers around one of the bars beside him and held on tight. _

_ He pictured Steve pushing his bangs back out of his eyes — a nervous habit. He pictured staying up late — even though he had work the next morning — to let Steve draw his face in his tattered little sketchbook; the way Steve would complain about never getting it just right. He pictured the way Steve would shake when it got too cold in their apartment, though he tried his damnedest to hide it. Bucky would bundle him in blankets — would grab hold of Steve’s freezing hands. Once when Bucky was feeling bold, and full of temporary self-confidence, he pressed Steve’s palms up his shirt against his chest — let Steve steal his body heat. (Steve had blushed a beautiful shade of red at that.) _

_ “You hang on. You’re gonna go home to her,” the soldier promised. “Just think of home.” _

_ Bucky held on to that — he would think of home. Steve was his home. _

_ Bucky didn’t know what happened to that man — hoped he was freed with the 107th, maybe even lived out a happy life after the war. But Bucky wasn’t sure, because the next time the Germans came to the cages, the riot broke out. He fought back. And then they took him.  _

_ All that time he’d had to carry on thinking he was going to die — that Steve was never going to know what happened. (What  _ **_really_ ** _ happened.) He wondered if they’d find his body — if they’d be able to identify him. Probably not. ‘Known but to God’, they’d called it. He wouldn’t even be able to give that closure to Steve. _

At least now when he died, Steve could know why. It wasn’t that he wasn’t going to try — wasn’t going to do the best he could, but if he was digging his own grave Hydra had certainly handed him the shovel. Settling in for the night, sheltered from the biting wind, Bucky wondered if Steve was okay — hoped he was warm and safe, that his dumb ass hadn’t come looking for him. He wouldn’t find him this time.

He thought about what else would happen when he died; how even in death the world would undoubtedly see him as someone very different than who he was. They must have known — the historians must have speculated. Though, the first time, the textbooks had reduced him down to ‘ _ Steve Rogers’ childhood friend,’  _ or ‘ _ schoolyard playmate _ .’

They’d been erased. And  _ how dare anyone  _ minimize it — it wasn’t  _ fair.  _ How dare they cover it up even in their  _ deaths _ . Their story was as old as the universe — it transcended  _ decades.  _ Steve was the love of his fucking life. 

Maybe historians would get it right the second time. Or maybe they’d have to live on in whispers, in rumors, in unrecorded history. 

Bucky tried to close his eyes for just a few hours, but he couldn’t get past the sadness — couldn’t still his hands enough. So he pulled up his hood, smoked a cigarette and sharpened his knife. He nicked his finger without realizing it — without really even feeling it. Cursing, Bucky wiped the blood on his pants.

Just for a second, he turned on his phone, just to feel close to Steve — just to feel like he  _ could  _ call him.

If he were stronger, he wouldn’t have listened to the voicemails. If he were stronger, he wouldn’t have kissed his necklace because it was the last thing Steve had given him. If he was stronger, he wouldn’t have cried into his hands.

*

Nearly a full day and and a heated debate with the Department of Defense later, Steve was fuming. 

They’d suggested that now might be a good time for him to  _ tap out  _ — to take his  _ retirement  _ more seriously. 

Steve’s comment that  _ last  _ time he tried to tap out, he just ended up freezer burnt, was met with stunned silence as a somber understanding set in. He hadn’t admitted it out loud to anyone but Bucky, but he was sick of lying by omission. He was sick of a lot of things, so he’d left before he could find a polite enough way to tell them to fuck off. 

Sam was on the cusp of losing his composure as well, realizing he couldn’t speak rationally to these people once they’d gotten it in their minds to shut him down. 

Natasha had left, unceremoniously, halfway through the meeting — presumably gone off the grid to interrogate some shady individuals for  _ anything.  _ But they knew they were grasping at straws. 

They were being  _ threatened _ because Bucky was a liability and they’d lost him. Steve had tried to remind the department that Bucky had never been  _ the villain. Bucky was a victim.  _ But this wasn’t only  _ about  _ Bucky anymore. This was about the fact that Bucky had  _ seen someone _ — that a  _ building  _ had deliberately been blown up with Natasha and Steve inside it. This was about the fact that a Nazi organization was continuing to grow underground, unchecked. This was about the fact that the government  _ didn’t want to get involved  _ and by proxy Steve wasn’t  _ permitted  _ to get involved. It was bullshit, which is exactly what Steve told Stark as he sauntered past him when they’d returned back to the Tower.

“There’s nothing on the security footage. As a matter of fact, there’s  _ no security footage.  _ A lot of people are pissed off that we don’t  _ know where he is, Steve. _ He’s probably off the rails again— _ ,”  _ Tony snapped looking contemptuous. 

“He’s  _ not  _ off the rails _ ,”  _ Steve insisted. Tony didn’t get to  _ make  _ that assessment. Tony didn’t  _ know  _ Bucky — he’d never taken a moment to try.

“We can’t get involved every time it  _ might  _ be —,”

“This  _ isn’t nothing _ ,” Steve said pointedly, hands on his hips, blood beginning to boil. 

“Were you not in the same meeting as me? I told you this was  _ your _ problem,” Stark poked him hard in the chest. “I’m not getting involved. The government already  _ told  _ you  _ no.  _ Your  _ boyfriend’s _ pissed off a lot of people. Everyone who comes knocking isn’t  _ Hydra.” _

“And so what? We trust the government to make the right decision? You understand now, right — why I could never sign the accords?  _ This  _ is the reason, Tony. Because I can’t sit on my ass when bad things happen. If we let this go, we’re complicit,” Steve explained.

“It’s not  _ your call,  _ Steve. He’s making you  _ stupid _ ,” Tony snapped, grinding his teeth.

Steve disagreed. Bucky didn’t make him  _ stupid _ ; Bucky made him  _ brave _ . He bit his tongue, though — if he didn’t, he’d be severing any remaining civility between the two of them.

In Steve’s silence, Stark said, “We can’t get  _ involved _ . And if you do I can’t help you. If they wanna fight you on this, I won’t stop them.”

They were never going to agree. Steve was never going to get behind Stark’s plans for a suit of armor around the world. Because these confines weren’t freedom, they were fear — and peace won by a government keeping a knife to the neck of citizens was no peace at all. That being all Steve needed to hear, he slammed the door as he left without a backward glance. He packed up his most important belongings in a rucksack and left in the middle of the night for Natasha’s safe house. Sam and Nat were waiting there for him.

When Steve trudged through the snow and came in through the back alley to a nondescript townhouse upstate, Nat was sitting on the couch, one foot propped up on the coffee table. Sam was handing her an ice pack that she took and pressed to her forehead. A bruise was starting to blossom there under the skin, but it wasn’t major. They kept the main lights off, needing it to look like no one was home.

“You okay?” Steve asked, faltering, dropping his bag at the door.

“You should see the other guy,” Nat smiled, waving him off, but it ended in a wince as she sat up straighter. 

“You really need to stop getting head injuries,” Steve implored.

“Are you my mom?” Natasha teased.

“At this point, I may as well be,” Steve kept his tone light, sitting down beside Nat on the couch, though he was still trying to grapple with the idea of not being the  _ hero  _ he was supposed to be — feeling like he had to rectify his failures. 

He’d done his best — even when he got it  _ wrong  _ he’d  _ tried.  _ He’d spent so much time saving, defending, protecting. He’d been asked once, by a small child, ‘ _ but who protects Captain America? _ ’ He hadn’t had an answer then, but now — it had never been more obvious.  _ Who protected Steve? Bucky. _

Bucky had — for as long as he could remember.

Steve turned his attention back to Natasha and raised an eyebrow, as if to ask ‘anything?’

Nat pressed her lips together. “I’m  _ sorry.  _ He moves like a  _ ghost.  _ We can’t find him because  _ he doesn’t want to be found.” _

Looking down, Steve nodded solemnly. “We help him, then. We do what we can from here. If that means keeping them off his trail or tracking down agents.”

Sam clapped him on the shoulder — a silent agreement — before sinking into the upholstered chair on the other side of the coffee table.

Steve could have reminded Natasha and Sam that neither of them  _ had _ to do this — but the fact that they’d showed up here meant they were on board. “I can’t imagine any of us are going to be very popular after this.”

“It’s not just about Barnes going ‘Full Dark, No Stars’. This is important. This is about doing the right thing,” Sam said. Sam  _ did  _ that — the right thing. He was always doing what he  _ could to help.  _ Joking once about  _ Captain America _ , Sam had said, ‘I do what he does, just slower.’

He was  _ right,  _ of course, though Steve thought if merit warranted anything, Sam was far more deserving of the shield than he was. When something eventually happened to him, Steve figured he could leave the world knowing it would be safe in Sam Wilson’s hands. 

“I got stuck babysitting last time, and everything went to shit. I’m all in on this,” Sam smiled. (It was a joke, Sam knew he didn’t  _ have  _ to stay — never  _ had  _ to. But he did it because he was compassionate. He was the most emotionally intelligent person Steve had ever met.) 

“Sam, take lead.”

He paused for a beat. “Lead?”

“If you want it,” Steve clarified. “I’m out of practice, and I trust your judgement.”

He  _ trusted  _ Sam's judgement. Sam was good, Sam was  _ him,  _ but better. Sam wasn’t so goddamn reckless.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Sam smoothed his hands over his jeans — a nervous habit — but he smiled.

Steve needed a second to step back. He was too close to this. He was tired — and if he’d had it his way he would have disappeared looking for Bucky regardless of the consequences. But he couldn’t. Not only would he be going in blind, but he’d risk putting Bucky in danger if he gave him away. If he was that selfish, he’d get them all hurt. They needed to be smart, they’d probably only have one shot at this — whatever it turned out to be.

Steve wasn’t naïve to the fact that he’d once walked into battle with a  _ stupid- _ ass less durable  _ costume  _ just on the off chance Bucky would recognize it. Maybe it had worked but he had  _ definitely _ almost died.

Natasha looked at him like she thought he’d made the right call. Setting down the ice pack, she pulled her hair up into a knot and cracked her knuckles like she was ready to get to work. Then she scoffed, “I said once,  _ ‘one hand on the wheel, we can still steer.’  _ Well we aren’t even in the goddamn car anymore.  _ We’re  _ the only people we can trust.”

(Looking at their determined faces, Steve couldn’t have asked for a better team.)

Sam agreed. “They’re not going to appreciate us making Hydra their problem again — but as much as they won’t admit it, shit’s going sideways. I can’t promise this goes down well, but I can promise we won’t stop trying.”

Steve was anxious — because Bucky had to have known where he was going; had to have had  _ some  _ destination in mind. So, they were missing something. 

“Are any of his handlers still alive?” Sam asked.

“Everyone went underground when Hydra fell — lotta rats didn’t go down with the ship. They’re off the grid, but yes, a few of them are still alive,” Nat said.

It was  _ something.  _ It was an idea — but with only a few names of agents who hadn’t been heard from in years,  _ no  _ locations, and a dry well of information — they had already hit a wall.

“Bucky remembers more than he’d ever talk about. He probably knows exactly where they’ll be,” Steve admitted.

After putting long hours into logistical discussions, they started to settle in for the night— to rest because tomorrow wasn’t going to be particularly kind. They had a lot of shit to go over. In the little house that should have been cozy, Steve listened to the creeks of the floorboards, the wind against the siding. Was he always going to feel so displaced — like a nomad? Could he do nothing to subdue the cold in his bones?

“Alright, fellas. Get some rest,” Natasha remarked. Sam yawned, getting his feet under him. It  _ was  _ getting late, but Steve didn’t feel like closing his eyes. The way the trees blocked the moon through the window cast a strange, splotchy, stippling light over the room. 

“Yeah. I will. I think I’m just gonna stay up a little longer,” Steve assured. He caught the apprehensive look Sam gave Natasha before muttering a goodnight and trudging up the stairs to his room.

Steve wondered if knowing what they knew now about the way in which he’d become a popsicle; what they’d only  _ suspected _ before — left them fearful of his stupid impulses. That was fair. He probably didn’t have the right to miss any phone calls for the time being.

Natasha made a move to leave — was halfway up the stairs before deciding against it and coming back. Steve looked up at her as she sat beside him, pulled a cardboard box out from under the coffee table and placed it in her lap. Tucking a stray strand of red hair behind her ear, she rummaged through the contents — papers and files — until she found what she was looking for. 

She glanced up at Steve’s quizzical face. “I regret not giving these to you sooner.” 

Natasha grabbed Steve’s right hand and placed cold metal into his palm —  _ dog tags  _ that read James B. Barnes. “These were with his file. Higher-ups wanted them to go to the museum. I didn’t think that was right.” 

Staring down at his hands, Steve closed his fist delicately around the tin. “ _ Thank you,”  _ he said. Although, he didn’t think that really sufficed. One look at those tiny pieces of metal and he was on the Valkyrie taking a nosedive — he was chest-deep in ice.

Before she went to her room, Natasha kissed him on top of his head, like a mother tucking in a child. “Get some rest. I mean it.”

When the living room was empty — when everyone was gone and Steve was alone with his thoughts, he slipped the chain around his neck and brought the dog tags to his lips. At least here, like this, he could feel close to Bucky. 

*

On the road, sleep didn’t visit Bucky often. He had nightmares about killing — of all the blood that stained his hands. He had nightmares he was pinning Steve down, horrified that  _ Steve was dying;  _ that he was  _ killing him,  _ but unable to stop. He wasn’t in control — he was fighting so hard to pull his punches. But his body wasn’t his — he had no voice. He had nightmares about what Steve had said to him when he’d  _ apologized. ‘I was ready to die, Buck. If you killed me I was ready to go. At least it would have been you.’  _ That only served to make it more real. Bucky would wake up wishing he was dead.

Bucky wondered if underneath everything, part of him was searching for the man he used to be in places like this — in the anger and violence and killing. He wondered if he could backtrack and put together the pieces of who he was before he’d been  _ hurt _ . So far, he hadn’t found himself where he’d left it. He didn’t feel like the Winter Soldier anymore. He felt like the Angel of Death — like hell had opened up and spit him back out. 

Watching a nondescript farmhouse for the past few days, Bucky had catalogued the movements within. One male. Nobody in or out. Justified way to live — in fear. In a cage made entirely by his own hand.

His target worked on a schedule, only appearing in the main floor of the otherwise quiet house once a day — presumably there was some sort of panic room. If his calculations were correct, the target would be leaving the safety of his hideout soon. Maybe even sooner if Bucky cut the power and disabled the security system — which is exactly what he did.

He waited in the pitch darkness. Hearing the creak of the trap door opening— someone coming up from below— Bucky followed the sound. He moved without any noise to the bottom of the basement stairs, knife drawn.

Bucky found himself in a wine cellar. A squatty little man had climbed up from a trap door in the floor, fumbling with a flashlight, smacking it against his hand every time it shut off. The target was looking for the breaker box along the wall. He threw the switch, casting light over them, but didn’t turn around. 

It made Bucky furious all over again, the sound reminding him too much of the switches they’d flipped to  _ electrocute him.  _ Bucky remembered the  _ burn _ of electrocution — every time the target had ever shoved him backward into a chair. 

“Hiding in a bunker? Isn’t that a little cliché?”

The target turned around so abruptly he’d dropped his flashlight. It clattered to the ground. There was fear in his pinched, mousy face. His eyes were terrified.

“Remember me? I remember you,” Bucky said. He looked  _ older;  _ years hadn’t been kind to him. Maybe that, at least, was fair.

Thinking of every vile way he’d ever been tortured, Bucky wanted to break his fingers, suffocate him, slash his throat. Even all of that was  _ tame,  _ but he just.. didn’t know if he had it in him anymore. 

The target was nearly pissing himself, shaking hands pulling a gun that Bucky was fairly certain he’d never shot. He was sloppy though, just a scientist untrained in combat. Bucky had him disarmed in less than a second.

“Why’s Hydra watching me?” Bucky asked. 

The target didn’t speak. He had his hands up, shifting nervously and breathing in rapid little gasps. Bucky didn’t expect answers out of him. 

“Nothing to say? Huh. I remember you being kind of a loudmouth,” Bucky said, cocking his head. That was why it hadn’t taken long for Bucky to find him. “You feared this day would come. Are you scared of dying? I’m not.”

Bucky should suffocate him; put his head through the ceiling light; drown him in the bathtub and throw in a toaster. Death was too kind — an eye would always cost an eye, right? The target deserved to suffer, to  _ burn.  _ But Bucky couldn’t bring himself to do any of it.

“I was just following orders,” the target responded.

“You had a  _ choice _ ,” Bucky hissed. Where was Bucky’s goddamn choice? Where was the quiet life he could have had? Where was his  _ peace? _

Bucky clicked the safety off. “Any secrets you wanna spill? Names, evil plans?”

“Hail Hydra.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky spit. He was tired, though. Exhausted. When he pulled the trigger, it was quick in the way that nothing in Bucky’s past had ever been. 

He went into the sealed-off section of basement through the trap door and found what looked like a normal living room — a panic room for one. Looking through the bookshelves, he found a couple of schematic drawings, some heavily redacted documents, and a group picture of scientists that had worked for Hydra. Bucky only recognized few of them. 

Stepping out into the snow and disappearing into the night, Bucky knew he’d have to compartmentalize this too. He would shut it away in the corner of his mind he was wary of visiting.

Someone would get word of what transpired here eventually, and he needed to be in the wind by then. Adjusting the straps on his backpack, Bucky started walking and didn’t stop until he was easily 50 miles away. On the outskirts of town, under the cover of darkness and woods, he made a small fire. 

Leaning against a tree, Bucky took a few long drags from a cigarette. The sky started to spit down snow — snow that reminded him callously of falling from a train, of his broken body being dragged, staining the ground crimson beneath him.

_ Cold  _ despite being vehemently angry, Bucky pulled his hood up over his head. He missed Steve — Steve had left him all those sweet, understanding messages. Bucky should call him back; he needed to hear Steve's voice on the answering machine— though, he hoped Steve wouldn’t make this harder on him by  _ picking up the phone _ . He already felt like crying.

But Steve did pick up. Of course he did.

“Bucky?!” Steve’s sharp little intake of breath  _ got  _ him. Bucky could feel the impending tears, but he composed himself.

“Someone told me if you start running they’ll never let you stop. Gotta confront it. Gotta push back.”

“Bucky, I—,” 

“I’m not staying on the phone long enough for you to figure out where I am. But I love you, Stevie. I’ll do my best to come home,” Bucky promised. He stared intently at the fire — at the way the snowflakes melted when they got too close. 

He didn’t know where this ended or what the goal was besides  _ keeping the worst parts of his life away from Steve.  _ He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“I love you, too,” Steve whispered. 

Then Bucky hung up because if he didn’t do it quickly — like ripping off a bandaid — he never would. Though he did sit with the phone pressed to his ear and his head in his hands for at least 5 more minutes.

*

“That was  _ him _ ?” Sam asked, dumbfounded, closing the file in his hands. Nat was already on her feet as Steve nodded in confirmation.

At the safe house, the team had been looking into files in the evenings, when they had time — going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. They had been pouring over information; weeks worth of late nights spent huddled around the kitchen table, endless pots of coffee. (It felt like  _ family —  _ even if the circumstances were dark.) They’d been doing much of the same when Steve had gotten the call and abruptly pushed his chair back from the table. There hadn’t been a  _ sighting,  _ not a  _ word  _ from Bucky until now.

“Is he okay? What did he say?” Nat put her hand on Steve’s shoulder when he sat back down — he was still staring at his phone. 

“I don’t know where he is. But he’s alive. He’s okay.” Steve’s voice came out smaller than he had intended.

Those few seconds — that was  _ everything.  _ Hearing Bucky’s voice — knowing Bucky was still alive out there —  _ vindicated  _ Steve in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. They were on the right path. They were fighting a necessary fight — even if it was slow, even if piecing leads together seemed impossible. They had  _ something.  _ They could all feel it, just under the surface. They would keep digging.

Steve didn’t want to talk about it — to speculate about where Bucky could be. He needed to keep working, so he threw himself back in. Later, before he slept he could replay Bucky’s ‘ _ I love you,’  _ in his head over and over. Maybe then he’d get some decent rest; but for now he had to keep busy.

“Sam, you were talking about the report on DNA experiments from 1971,” Steve prompted.

Sam ran a hand over his tired eyes. “Right. It might be nothing, but I saw this picture. One of the scientists knew our pal Alexander Pierce.” Sam thumbed through some papers and spread old photographs out on the table.

“Anyone in these still alive?” Steve asked.

“I’m on it.” Nat started cross-referencing names in the database. It could have been nothing. It could have been another dead end; but Steve was doing his best to remain hopeful.

*

Bucky fucking hated trains. He hated them — they put him on edge, made his skin itch, made him  _ sick.  _ He hated the way they crawled like insects over the countryside. But here he was, tucked away in a car of a cargo train because it was necessary — he needed to be invisible. Even the anonymity of public transportation was too much of a risk. On a  _ train  _ in the  _ snow  _ was undoubtedly at the  _ very  _ bottom of the list of places he wanted to be, but he was safer here — lost between the crates and boxes.

The whistle sounded, making his stomach lurch. Bucky bit down on the inside of his cheek, shut his eyes and covered his ears.  _ God, this was horrific.  _ The impending sense of doom had his heart beating out of his chest — had him wringing his hands.

Putting on his headphones, he tried listening to music, humming along to drown out the noise in his head. Leaning his back against a crate, he tapped his foot against the wall of the train car and nodded along playing the drum beat on his knees — he couldn’t keep still. Even with the volume up loud enough to make his ears ring his hands were shaking.

_ ‘I wanna stand up, I wanna let go _

_ You know, you know; no, you don't, you don't _

_ I wanna shine on in the hearts of man _

_ I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand _

_ Another head aches, another heart breaks _

_ I'm so much older than I can take _

_ And my affection, well, it comes and goes _

_ I need direction to perfection, no, no, no, no’ _

He thought about what it would be like when his and Steve’s war dog days were over — if they’d ever get golden years or if those were long past them. Bucky thought about if he’d ever see Steve again. 

_ ‘Help me out, _

_ Yeah, you know you gotta help me out _

_ Yeah, oh, don't you put me on the back burner _

_ You know you gotta help me out, yeah _

_ And when there's nowhere else to run _

_ Is there room for one more son? _

_ These changes ain't changing me _

_ The cold-hearted boy I used to be’ _

Mouthing the words to himself, he remembered he used to mishear the lyrics as ‘gold-hearted.’ He was sure that said something about the kind of person he was — his character. Bucky thought about how, a few weeks ago, he  _ didn’t do shit like this anymore _ — about when and why he’d become the kind of person who  _ did.  _

_ ‘I got soul, but I'm not a soldier _

_ I got soul, but I'm not a soldier _

_ I got soul, but I'm not a soldier’ _

There was an especially aggressive disdain Bucky held just for himself — it was so visceral and sharp. It came over him like a tidal wave; making it glaringly obvious he’d had very little control in the first place. If Bucky hadn’t been wearing gloves, the metal of his hand would have drawn blood when he clawed at his neck. Barely able to get himself to fucking breathe, he needed out of his head — out of this godforsaken train car.

_ ‘Over and again, last call for sin _

_ While everyone's lost, the battle is won _

_ With all these things that I've done _

_ All these things that I've done’ _

He was already starting to feel the fingertip shaped bruises blossoming from how tightly he was gripping his thighs. Maybe this was another episode, maybe he  _ needed _ someone; but he was going to have to deal with this on his own. Bucky’s skin itched like all the wickedness was clawing its way out from the inside. Why was he doing this? Why was he still fighting — still  _ alive _ ? What if it was all for nothing? Maybe everything was fine on the other side of this feeling — but maybe he’d never get to know. Maybe leaving was a futile attempt to take his power back.

Bucky focused on the pain. The pain was grounding, but God, times like these made him wish his head was still empty. He wanted to  _ die;  _ but the only thing keeping him where he was seated was the notion that he, for  _ some  _ fucking reason,  _ survived _ a worse fall from a different train. It probably wouldn’t have played out any better the second time around.

The journey dragged on excruciatingly slowly; the train wouldn’t be going through the town Bucky needed to get to for at least another hour. Everything felt dark blue. Breath clouding the freezing air, Bucky imagined he was  _ anywhere  _ else. Clinging to memories of Wakanda, of warmth, he thought about Steve. He thought about those soft  _ happy  _ fragments of time he got there — ones he’d wished he could have frozen forever.

_ Bucky remembered a good day during his recovery — he’d spent the morning with the goats, making sure they all got enough to eat; that they were all ‘baaing’ happily. One of the children from the village had come to ask if he’d heard the news — whispered to him that Captain America was coming. Bucky wasn’t entirely sure why he felt like he needed to look nice, but he had rushed off immediately to wash his hair.  _

_ When the plane landed and Steve stepped out, though, Bucky had remembered why he was so flustered. Steve was beautiful. Steve made his chest ache. (That’s what Wakanda was, in retrospect — simultaneously recalling his life and seeing Steve like every time was the first time.) _

_ “Hey, Buck, how are ya? Do you.. do you remember me?” Hands in the pockets of his khaki pants, Steve rocked forward nervously on the balls of his feet. _

_ It was a good day. It was a really good day. Bucky remembered him — remembered every one of his visits. He knew there was more, he just couldn’t organize his thoughts. But that was okay. Bucky felt like he could give it time. He’d be alright.  _

“ _ You’re Steve.” _

_ The relief on Steve’s face was grounding. He smiled kindly and suggested they take a walk alone; somewhere a little more private — some of the children that had come to see the spectacle were laughing and whispering behind their hands.  _

_ Bucky remembered walking along the lake. Steve was walking beside him, hands still in his pockets. Their shoulders could have brushed, if Steve wasn’t being so careful not to touch him. In the fire-orange of the setting sun behind him, Steve had looked all pink and gold — haloed like an angel. Steve was an angel; Steve was the sun. And if Steve was the sun, maybe that’s why Bucky was so cold when he left — cold like the moon. But, Bucky hadn’t known if it was his place to say so. So he didn’t.  _

_ “You doin’ okay?”  _

_ Bucky flopped down onto his back in the grass and Steve had followed suit, kicking his legs out in front of him.  _

_ “Today is good. I … maybe I’m not as hopeless as I thought.” _

_ “You’re not hopeless,” Steve insisted, picking long strands of grass, attempting to weave them together with clumsy hands.  _

_ Bucky breathed the scent of flowers and nature.  _

_ “How’s the new arm?” Steve asked delicately.  _

_ “I like it. Still getting used to it. But it doesn’t feel like the old one. Feels better.” He hadn’t said he’d almost cried when Shuri constructed it for him; how this felt like getting pieces of himself back. _

_ Bucky had been ready to tease Steve for fumbling with the grass in his hands — a joke was on the tip of his tongue; maybe something the old him would say. Instead he sat up and said, “here, I’ll show you. The kids taught me how to braid.” _

_ Taking the strands gently from Steve’s hands, Bucky showed him the steady over-under motion. (It was soothing. Bucky had taken up weaving when he was stressed, when he wanted to prove to himself that his hands weren’t only violent — weren’t only good for destruction; that they could be careful.) _

_ “There was a lake in Brooklyn, right? We used to sit out there in the summer,” Bucky said. _

_ When he looked up, Steve had been staring at him with his lips parted, forehead creased, his hair a dark wheat-golden in the dying light. Bucky wanted to reach out and scratch the stubble on his cheek. He didn’t. “What’s wrong?” _

_ “Nothing, Buck. Everything’s  _ **_good_ ** _.” Steve beamed at him, misty-eyed. “You’re right. Prospect Park. We’d go there when it got too hot to be in the city.” _

_ Bucky nodded. Picking a flower beside him, he tucked it into Steve’s hair. (Steve's hair was getting a bit longer, too.) _

_ “So there have been some talks and — if you ever want to, of course it’s completely your call, but — you can come back to New York.” Steve's hands had stilled on the blades of grass. _

_ “With you?” Bucky asked after a pause. _

_ “Yeah, you’d be staying with me.”  _

_ “I think I’d really, really like that,” Bucky said. _

_ Still grinning, Steve laid back in the grass and stared up at the sky, hands folded over his stomach. Bucky had imagined crawling into Steve’s arms; sinking into his chest where he would be safe. He’d imagined the way he wished Steve’s hands would hold him. Bucky hadn’t been able to put a finger on the reason he couldn’t do that — why he felt so dirty, so unworthy even thinking it. _

_ “Can I show you some drawings I’ve been working on?” Bucky asked to change the topic, a slow smile spreading across his face. _

_ “Yeah, yeah of course!” _

_ The sky had been bruise-purple — the sunsets in Wakanda were always incredible — as Bucky walked the few yards to his hut. Looking behind him every so often, Bucky was half afraid Steve would have disappeared like a mirage in the time it took him to retrieve his iPad.  _

_ There were digital sketches of goats, trees, and other local plant life. There were color studies of the sky and even some drawings of memories of the city. _

_ “My hand shakes sometimes. I.. it’s getting better.” Bucky tried to excuse the mess, the hesitant lines and mistakes. _

_ “These are great, Buck!” Steve dismissed that idea, scrolling through as Bucky's cheeks reddened. “I’ve never been any good with this new technology. These are .. the  _ **_colors_ ** _.” _

_ Steve was being modest — Steve was adaptable and smart. Bucky thought he remembered Steve once taking Hydra tech apart and figuring out how it worked in less than 5 minutes. (Steve also recently told him that clocks, newspapers books — old things were a comfort; old things worked just fine thank-you-very-much.) Bucky hadn’t been sure if it was the assassin in him — the way he’d been trained to be observant — or if it was something else entirely that kept him watching every microexpression in Steve’s face. _

The train clattered on the tracks, the back of Bucky’s head smacked against the crate behind him, bringing him back to an unwelcoming reality. 

*

“I worry about him, Nat — if he’s sleeping okay, if he’s eating. If he’s hurt. I worry about what happens if he slips again,” Steve admitted. He didn’t like to talk about it — talking about it made it  _ real.  _ Steve hadn’t said Bucky’s name in the weeks he’d been gone. It  _ hurt _ ,  _ it hurt. _

The team was on the tail end of another late night. Sam had fallen asleep on the couch, understandably exhausted. No one had the heart to wake him; he deserved some rest. Natasha was at her laptop, nearly ready to call it a day and look at everything with fresh eyes in the morning. The whiteboard full of leads — puzzle pieces that wouldn’t fit — mocked them from the kitchen. Steve didn’t want to look at it as he passed by, taking all the empty coffee mugs to the sink.

“He’s strong, Steve,” Natasha assured, glancing at him from over her laptop screen. 

“I know he is,” Steve sat down heavily in the kitchen chair, rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers together. “I know.”

Natasha opened her mouth, probably to say something encouraging, but Steve’s face said he couldn’t handle the conversation. Feeling like he’d imagined Bucky being with him — like he had dreamed Bucky was ever there at all — Steve wondered if this was  _ grieving _ ; if he was going to spend the rest of his life in this haze.

As Steve started up the stairs to bed, Natasha said, “I don’t have all the information yet, but I’ve come across a few unsolved murders in Canada. No trace of the killer. First guy was a scientist living off the grid. The news called him a  _ ‘doomsday prepper _ ’, but three guesses who he used to work for.” After a hesitation, Steve nodded and thanked her.

Lying in bed, back of his hand over his eyes, Steve didn’t want to set his hopes too high. However, his mind was connecting the dots,  _ running  _ through every possible scenario and coming to the conclusion that he needed to cling to this — to the idea that this meant Bucky was alive. Steve hoped whatever Bucky was up to, it brought him some healing. If he needed this, then that was okay. He placed his palm over the dog tags on his bare chest. 

*

Sometimes Bucky dreamed that he was dying — having taken enemy fire in the war. Steve was with him, unharmed. And he  _ bled out _ , but at least they were together for a moment. When Steve joined him — hopefully it would be far in the future after he’d had a good run; having taken his time. Bucky hoped they’d find each other in another life. Maybe the next one would be kinder. Deep down Bucky knew what had happened last time — that Steve’s reckless ass hadn’t made it long without him.

In the back alley of an upscale club one night, Bucky waited out his next kill. This was someone who didn’t get his hands dirty but was just as evil as the rest of them. _ Someone who sat back and watched, who kept his name off everything so he could hide in plain sight.  _ That made him dangerous. (It was a lot more inconvenient, now that they weren’t wearing uniforms.)

Bucky lit a cigarette and called Steve, who picked up on the first ring. He couldn’t call often — God, it  _ hurt too badly, it broke his fucking heart.  _

“Hi, Stevie,” he murmured.

“Hi, doll. It’s — it’s really good to hear from ya,” Steve sighed. 

“You angry with me?” Bucky would understand if he was. It had been  _ so long. _ Shit, was it February now— almost March? He couldn’t keep track of the time. Maybe he should wish Steve a happy Valentine’s Day.

“ _ No,”  _ Steve asserted.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, closing his eyes, picturing the way Steve was probably pacing the floor on the other end of the line. 

“Yeah — yeah I’m okay,” Steve said, though Bucky wasn’t sure he was being truthful. 

Not paying attention to what he was doing, the cigarette burned the space between Bucky’s index and middle finger. He cursed under his breath and stomped the butt out on the concrete. Maybe he’d never been any good at letting go.

“I can’t talk long. I love you. I’m sorry for everything.” Bucky rubbed at his forehead, feeling homesick. His skin and bones had seen better days.

“I love you, too. I miss you  _ so much,  _ Buck.”

*

The past few months, Bucky had gotten out of fights relatively unscathed — just some bruised knuckles — though he’d only tracked down a  _ handful  _ of Hydra agents. Mainly, he’d gone after the scientists, some low men on the totem pole, and one of his old handlers who was getting up in his years. He hadn’t expected an even fight from any of them — and he hadn’t gotten one.

The target he was tracking now had been an agent responsible for much of the torture he’d endured in the more recent years. Bucky was starting to feel anxious, though, like he was running out of time. Word was getting out, the media had picked up on the deaths, there were whispers — Bucky knew he would have to be more careful. The target would have prepared for his arrival. 

On the fire escape of an apartment building on the outskirts of DC, Bucky watched the target through the window and drew his gun. The TV was on — Bucky thought a little too loud for this time of night — there was flickering light in the otherwise dark apartment. 

He took two deep, calming breaths, back of his neck prickling uncomfortably. Putting a bullet through the window, watching the glass spider-web and splinter, Bucky waited for the target to approach before kicking out the window and landing on his feet inside the apartment in two swift motions. The target maneuvered into the bathroom, gun-first, paling when he saw Bucky. 

Neither one of them spoke for a heavy thirty seconds. His target looked  _ angry —  _ the kind of anger borne of being  _ startled, scared, out of control.  _ Bucky, on the other hand, was stone-faced. Wanting to get straight to the point, Bucky listed  _ everything,  _ every sin that had been committed against him; his expression didn’t change. 

“You beat me until I was numb,” Bucky started, voice measured, steady,  _ icy.  _ He kept the gun trained on the agent’s head. “You broke my bones. You burned me. You cut me. You  _ violated  _ me. You smiled as you did it.”

The target laughed, pulling the trigger, losing focus for just a fraction of a second. It was enough time for Bucky to make a move, he got out of the way, striking the target hard over the head with the butt of his gun. The hand to hand combat didn’t last long — Bucky knocked the target’s gun out of his grasp, it skidded across the bathroom tiles. He had the agent’s arm behind his back, a gun to his temple.

He guessed that’s where he and Hydra were different. Killing sat wrong in his stomach — it always had. Bucky couldn’t take pleasure in any of this; there was no deliverance to be found.  _ It wasn’t revenge that made him feel better. It was confronting the darkest parts of his past face to face. It was ensuring the demons that haunted his sleep couldn’t cause any more pain.  _

“You think I won’t do it again? You were  _ fun  _ to play with.” The target struggled; kicked. Bucky was immovable. It was all talk — and the agent  _ knew it.  _ Bucky could sense the fear. 

Remaining unfazed, Bucky said, “I’m not afraid of you.” In the Hydra facility, Bucky had been  _ easy  _ to deal with when he was sedated. Now he had fire in him.

“Go to hell,” the target spit. 

“I’m already there,” Bucky said, crushing the agent’s hand, eliciting a suppressed scream. He was going to be hard to crack.

“You’ll regret this. You’ll die out here,” the target threatened.

“You can’t hurt me worse than I’ve already been hurt. You don’t  _ fucking _ scare me.” Bucky put pressure on his shoulder, pressed up like he was going to dislocate it.

The Hydra agent let out an anguished yell.

“Tell me why they’re watching me,” Bucky demanded.

The target wouldn’t talk — of course not. He hadn’t gotten any straight answers in months. Bucky was sick of this; he pulled the trigger, tossing the body to the floor and escaped back through the bathroom window, into the blanket of darkness. But he didn’t fucking feel any better when the target was dead. He didn’t feel  _ anything _ — he wanted to go home — but at least this was retribution.

Pulling his hood up, Bucky disappeared as flashing lights illuminated the quiet street — someone would have called the police. Bucky hadn’t left any trace, though. The brisk air stole the breath from his lungs. His ears were ringing; buzzing like amp feedback. Needing to take a moment after he’d gotten far enough away, he crouched, perched on the balls of his feet and leaned his back against the side of a building.

He missed Steve so fucking much.

*

Winter melted into spring — he’d  _ survived  _ another winter. Somewhere along the line, he’d given up counting as they passed. It was  _ selfish _ , but Bucky really wished everything would  _ stop.  _

He’d wound up back in upstate New York— close enough to the address Steve had given him. Bucky told himself  _ just one more, just one, and he could go home.  _ He could take a  _ breath,  _ satisfied that he would have done enough to warrant a break.

Watching a house in a quiet little upscale neighborhood, he waited anxiously on his next kill — one of the facility guards. He’d once come in and beat the living hell out of Bucky — that wasn’t even his  _ job,  _ he’d done it because he wanted to. Even now, Bucky remembered the way it felt — he remembered that he  _ didn’t know what he’d done wrong.  _

Thunder rolled. Bucky couldn’t place why he felt so uneasy. He knew the target lived alone, but there was a woman there. That had thrown him. Bucky’d had to wait for her to leave —he wouldn’t hurt anyone he didn’t have to. The target had walked the woman to her car and  _ Bucky lost track of him _ for a moment. 

His conscious thoughts were a steady stream of ‘ _ oh no, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’ _

Disoriented, he turned and the target was coming toward him, shooting twice. Bucky tucked and rolled, ducking behind a tree, letting his training take over. He moved quickly, turning and planting a foot directly into the target’s chest, sending him stumbling backward. The sky opened up, pouring down rain. The gun was lost somewhere in the grass as Bucky sent his knife into the target's shoulder. Slipping, they both rolled down the embankment, Bucky landed painfully on his back feeling  _ burning in his stomach _ . He opened his eyes blearily, dazed for a second as he hit his head.

He spit blood out of his mouth. This one wasn’t going to go down easily. 

“God's perfect killing machine,” a voice sneered from the darkness. The target was yelling trigger words at him, but they didn’t take. All Bucky could think was that he didn’t want to  _ be that  _ anymore — even now  _ in this moment.  _

Everything was pitch black in the woods. Bucky took another swing, overcome with a white hot rage, and connected his fist with the target’s nose, knocking him back to the ground. The target was straining against him in vain, clawing at Bucky’s arms while he crushed his windpipe. As Bucky checked to make sure the target was dead, he was starting to feel dizzy. 

Alarming how fast everything could change. 

That was the  _ catch  _ with his training — the flaw in letting the part of him that was still the Soldier take the driver’s seat — he hadn’t been conditioned to consider his own safety. Lacking a sense of self-preservation, he’d only been programmed to complete the mission — no matter the personal cost or injury sustained. His body didn’t matter. 

Looking down, Bucky lifted his soaked shirt and, oh  _ God _ , he was bleeding. His hands were covered in blood. There was.. a  _ lot  _ of blood. Oh, this was bad, this wasn’t what he thought it would be like. Let his bones turn to dust, he’d sink into the ground — haunt the nearest body of water, finally see some fucking peace. And one day, hopefully many, many years from now, he’d see Steve walking to him up the shore. Steve would always know where to find him.

He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid, but he couldn’t do this here — he needed to find Steve. If he was going to die, he was going to die on his way home to Steve. Being so  _ close,  _ maybe he could make it. If he was the  _ luckiest man on earth,  _ maybe he could make it home.

*

Steve let himself into the house after picking up groceries, keys jingling in the lock. Setting the bags down on the kitchen table, the back of his neck prickled. Something felt out of place — he wasn’t alone. Natasha and Sam were both out, but blood droplets stained the floor in front of him — a trail toward the bathroom. Something clattered as it fell.

Slowly, avoiding the creaky floorboard in the hall, Steve made his way to the bathroom door. He peaked around the frame and was nearly  _ leveled  _ by the sight. It woke him up like a heart attack. 

Bucky was  _ soaking wet _ , shivering, bleeding all over the tile with his legs in front of him and his back against the cabinets. His shirt was off — he’d started trying to clean  _ a stab wound  _ himself. 

_ “Oh God, oh my God,”  _ Steve stuttered.

Gasping, breathing labored, Bucky put his metal hand up weakly in the painful way that said  _ don’t come any closer.  _ There was  _ fear  _ in his voice. “Prove it, prove you’re  _ my  _ Steve, prove you’re mine.”

Steve was starting to panic because  _ that was a lot of fucking blood  _ — it dripped down Bucky’s bare stomach from an  _ evil  _ looking laceration — collected and pooled in the divots of his hips. It seeped from a gash on his forearm. 

“Bucky, let me —,” Steve started.

“Prove you’re the real Steve,” Bucky begged, curled in on himself — protecting himself.

“Okay, okay. Um.. I — growing up you always told me your favorite color was blue, and I just  _ took your word for it  _ because of the colorblindness — because I had no idea what blue was supposed to look like. But then I … I got the serum and  _ saw your eyes and I understood.”  _ Steve was talking fast, voice high and pinched. He was supposed to be Captain America, he was supposed to be brave but  _ this was something else entirely —  _ like ice water had been dumped over his head. This put the fear of God into him.

Blood seeped through Bucky’s fingers where he pressed his palm to his torso. On the verge of tears, his hand dropped to his side, allowing Steve closer. This was him, this was  _ his _ Steve.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” Bucky croaked.

Shaking his head, Steve’s first aid training immediately came back to him. He wasn’t an  _ expert  _ though, he didn’t know how deep it would have to go to make it real. He  _ wasn’t sure he knew  _ where the point of no return was; but he couldn’t think that way right now. 

Crouching beside him, Steve grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked it over the top of his head. He used it to keep the pressure on Bucky's wound.

“I came back to see you. I came back.” Bucky tried to smile but he looked  _ wrecked.  _ It was bad, it was bad. The pallor of his skin and the clamminess of his hand had Steve concerned Bucky was going into shock.

“I know doll, we should get you to a hospital.” With numb, bloody hands, he shot Sam an SOS text. They’d probably have hell to pay as soon as they were back on the radar, but if Bucky could survive this, it would all be worth it. They were in a small town, though; a long way from any real civilization — by the time they’d get there… Steve didn’t know what would happen.

“No.” Bucky's face was dirty, tears cut through the dust and dried blood.

Pulled into Steve’s lap, splayed out like the Pietà, Bucky was beautiful and broken — divinely, tragically broken. 

“ _ Honey.”  _ Steve was moving frenziedly.

“No. If I’m dyin’, I’m dyin’ right here. Right with you.

Love you, Stevie. I love you, I love you. We never did get the timing right,” Bucky chuckled. All those times Steve found him — and this was the one time he’d found Steve. One last time.

“You’re not fucking dying tonight.” Steve clenched his jaw. Bucky had made it this far. “Okay, okay. This is going to hurt like hell, I’m so sorry, baby.”

Frantically looking for something to make a tourniquet with, he ripped a strip from the fabric of his shirt. He tightened it around his upper arm. Eyelids fluttering, Bucky wailed in agony.

Steve's heart was breaking. This was somewhere between a blessing and a cruel cosmic joke. The universe was giving him the  _ privilege  _ of being the last thing Bucky saw — of being with Bucky in his last moments  _ for the second time.  _ But he couldn’t  _ do  _ it. He was not about to let Bucky go right now. Not when he’d thought they’d have more time. 

(That’s what he felt like. A man out of time — always running down the clock — having waited way too fucking long.) 

Blood seeped onto the floor, onto Steve’s clothes, through his fingers where he was keeping pressure on Bucky's abdomen. The air was hot and sticky, heavy with the scent of the rain outside and copper and  _ fear _ — finality. They were standing on the precipice of order and chaos.

He kept the pressure — as hard as he could. Bucky was staring up at him. “It’s gonna be okay. It’s already stopping.” Steve was fucking bad at lying. “Just gotta keep you still, alright? Keep you warm. Can’t let you go into shock. I texted Sam, okay? He’s on his way.”

“Sam… Sam’s a good friend.” Bucky's head felt like it was splitting at the seams. Everything was heavy. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open — the current was going to pull him away.

“I know he is,” Steve soothed.

“Tell him I said so.” Bucky's speech was slurred and slow. 

“You’ll tell him.” Steve rubbed Bucky’s shoulder over and over gently trying to get him to keep talking, to keep shock from setting in. Trying to get his eyes to focus, Steve comforted him, in case.. in case this really was it. God, this couldn’t be it, please, please, please  _ no. _

“Tried so hard. Failed.” Bucky  _ tried  _ to redeem himself. It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough — he’d never been.

“You did good, baby. You’re good through and through. Never been bad. Not a bad bone in your body.” The way the world had been so cruel to him, the way  _ Bucky deserved better,  _ was breaking Steve’s equanimity. Bucky looked like he was ready to fold the hand he’d been dealt.

“Slow your breath, love. Deep breaths,” Steve coached. 

He reached up to touch Steve’s face with metal fingers, to trace down to the tip of his nose, over his lips. Like he was melting through the floor  _ fading —  _ Bucky knew he was undoubtedly in intense pain, but he couldn’t feel anything.

“Love you. Love you,” Everything sounded like it was underwater. His ears were ringing. He looked down and saw all the blood staining the floor — dark crimson on Steve’s pants, his hands. Bucky wasn’t afraid to die, not here where he was warm and safe — this moment felt perfect. Beautiful, beautiful, perfect. “Not scared.”

Bucky heard himself say he was fine. 

Sam was instructing Steve on further first aid before he had even come all the way through the door. In the cramped bathroom, Sam crouched next to Bucky and checked to see how badly his wounds were still bleeding. Bucky couldn’t focus on anything else around him — it all just looked like a flurry of motion. 

“The fact that he even made it back here is.. unbelievable,” Sam said. (A  _ miracle.)  _

“Sam,” Bucky rasped. “Good. You’re good.”

“You are too. You better fight.” Sam didn’t take his eyes off what he was doing. 

Steve hoped Bucky would fight his way back if he could — he had always been  _ good  _ at surviving out of spite. Though, the fear instilled in Steve wondered how much of Bucky wanted this — was ready to go.

It was touch-and-go. Bucky was becoming too weak to respond. He was in and out of consciousness — but his heart was still beating.

After 10 terrifying minutes, between the two of them, Sam and Steve finally got the bleeding stopped enough to clean, suture and dress the wounds. Although, neither wanted to take a chance on moving Bucky. They wouldn’t take their eyes off him.

“Keep him talking, man,” Sam instructed. “He’s stabilizing.  _ Shit, _ he’s lucky. If he were a normal guy, he’d be dead already.”

“You’re not done yet,” Steve murmured, stroking hair back from Bucky’s sweaty forehead. “Just a little longer, just gotta make it through the night.” If Bucky could just hold on until his body started healing — replacing all the blood it had lost — he’d be okay. He had to be okay, right? They could weather the storm together. “Let me see your eyes, Buck. Keep looking at me.”

Gazing up at him, Bucky's pupils looked fine, but the sheer intensity of his stare startled Steve. His eyes held so much depth that Steve worried he could have fallen right in.

“You’re gonna be okay. You’re okay,” Steve repeated, low and soft, just to Bucky. He wanted to cry — a dam had burst in his chest — but he shut up his emotions to deal with later.

Bucky was still pretty out of it, but alert enough now to complain. (He was coming back to himself, starting to feel the pain his brain had been trying to protect him from.)

Every so often, still in disbelief, Sam would say, “He’s fucking lucky.”

When Natasha came home, the first thing out of her mouth was a panicked, “What the  _ fuck?” _

Bucky thought it was nice to see her. He wanted to say so, he just didn’t have the energy. She was helping clean the blood off the floor — she was talking to him but he didn’t really understand what she was saying, everything sounded a little muffled through the heartbeat in his ears. It sounded like something about them needing to keep this quiet from the feds. Her voice was nice, though; soothing, so Bucky nodded even if everything felt like it was happening in a dream. She placed her hand on his forehead.

Of course this was a dream.  _ Stevie  _ was here, kissing him on the forehead — his arm was starting to burn. He hurt all over. He squeezed his eyes shut.  _ Ow. _

“Up you go, doll,” Steve murmured when Bucky was strong enough to stand on shaking legs. Steve looped an arm around his troublingly slight waist — held him strong and steady. “Gotta get you up to bed.”

Bucky giggled like Steve was  _ flirting with him _ until a wave of vertigo reminded him that, no, he’d almost died. When his knees buckled on the stairs, Steve carried him the rest of the way. 

Opening the bedroom door, Steve kicked some boxes out of the way. It had been months, but he’d barely started unpacking the possessions he’d picked up from the Tower. His room didn’t look lived-in. 

Steve supported Bucky; helped him step out of his wet clothes and into a pair of gray sweatpants; helped him lay back on the bed and got him comfortable enough to sleep. Bucky only muttered a tiny ‘ _ ow _ .’ He’d start to heal soon. They were lucky — they were so unbelievably lucky. 

Steve was still processing the fact that the universe hadn’t collected its debts. Bucky had been thrown back into his arms like a combusting star — like pulling apart the threads of the heavens. They became such a strange constellation. Steve would never know how their lives continued to run parallel. How Bucky was his  _ catalyst _ . Steve had been  _ beholden  _ to every form Bucky had ever taken.

Climbing into bed beside him, watching Bucky breathe, Steve remembered how Bucky would rub circles into his skinny back whenever he’d be sick. Bucky would stay with him regardless of how contagious he was or how much Steve complained about the way  _ Bucky shouldn’t be in the room with him at all _ . (Bucky had joked that  _ his  _ immune system could handle it.)

Steve supposed the way he felt  _ now _ was comparable to the way Bucky must have felt back then — powerless, scared, aching to provide even a modicum of the comfort he deserved. He ran knuckles softly down Bucky’s cheek.

Bucky was still hazy, punch-drunk, unable to get thoughts to  _ stick  _ inside his head. He was awake though; eyes closed but not sleeping — in and out as he had been for hours — as the watery early spring sun prepared to rise, though the shades were drawn. It couldn’t have been more than 4 am. Every beat of his pulse was a dull ache that radiated from the lacerations in his arm and abdomen. It was  _ sick  _ that he liked the way it felt. 

The events of the last few hours felt strange;  _ fictional —  _ but the way he’d pillowed his head on Steve’s chest, the way Steve’s hand rubbed circles into his back, the way Bucky’s abdomen and forearm  _ burned _ under thick bandages told him it was all very  _ real. _

Bucky groaned and shifted uncomfortably, rolling off Steve’s chest and onto the pillows beside him. His fingers tingled, his head pounded. He felt like shit, honestly, but more human than in a long, long time. 

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky rasped, propped up on pillows, turning his head painfully to see Steve who was looking down at him, concerned. 

“Yeah Buck, you okay?” 

Bucky didn’t say how much it hurt. He was here. He was alive when he should have been dead a hundred times — but  _ part  _ of him was glad he wasn’t. He’d found Steve again.

“You look good with a beard,” Bucky croaked. It was just starting to grow out, it wasn’t even a  _ real _ beard yet. (Steve thought he may hold off shaving for a while.)

“You’re flirting with me on your deathbed?” Steve could joke about it. He had to — because he couldn’t handle the alternative.

Bucky chuckled, “Ow. Don’t make me laugh, punk.”

Just like when he’d brought Bucky to safety from the Hydra camp; when Bucky had looked up at him with such amazement — made little comments about the  _ striking  _ change in Steve’s appearance that, at the time, he’d written off as banter. In hindsight, maybe Bucky had been flirting all along. Maybe he really was  _ that _ oblivious.

‘ _ Did it hurt?’ _

_ ‘Is it permanent?’ _

_ ‘Did .. everything change?’ _

_ ‘Glad you got to keep your freckles.’ _

_ ‘But you’re keeping the outfit, though, right?’ _

Steve leaned beside him. Holding his weight carefully off Bucky, as not to jostle him, he kissed the side of his head. Cupping Bucky's face, Steve just  _ looked  _ at him because throughout the last few months he’d feared he would  _ never get to see Bucky again.  _ He’d  _ tried  _ to process the grief that came along with that — but it just always felt raw.

Bucky pressed his forehead against Steve’s, let his fingers tangle in the hair at the back of Steve’s neck. “I’m not leaving again.” 

Steve nodded — sighed at the swell of emotion when Bucky held out his pinkie and said, ‘promise.”

“I love you,” Steve murmured, linking his pinkie with Bucky’s. “I love you, I love you,” Every sentence punctuated with another kiss — to Bucky’s forehead, his cheek, his temple.

Overwhelmed with emotions that he was both too weak and too disorganized to form into words, Bucky felt like crying. He did his best to contain it. He hid his face behind his hand, but he couldn’t hide from Steve. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Bucky didn’t know if he’d even  _ accomplished  _ anything by leaving or if they were still running in circles. Maybe all he’d done was cause more hurt — maybe all he’d done was feed the very  _ worst  _ parts of him. Was he arrogant for thinking he could do this on his own — for thinking this would make him feel stronger; for thinking he could ever redeem himself?

“Shhh, shh,” Steve cooed, gently wiping the tears from under Bucky’s eyes. 

“I.. I  _ tried.  _ Wanted to take my  _ power  _ back. Failed,” Bucky whimpered, crease in his brow.

“Your power, Buck, that comes from  _ you.  _ That’s  _ yours.  _ It’s.. if you need revenge for what they’ve done to you, I understand. I’m right there with you. But your power doesn’t come from them,” Steve said, looking through the darkness at Bucky’s pained face. He reached out to run a hand gently down Bucky’s arm — avoiding the bandages. That  _ spark  _ in Bucky  _ —  _ Hydra couldn’t  _ touch  _ that. Somehow Steve would find a way to prove that to him. 

Bucky shuddered out a breath, hesitantly entwining his fingers with Steve’s. “Don’t think I can  _ do _ it on my own.”

“You don’t have to, my love. End of the line, remember? You  _ never _ have to fight alone. I need to know you understand that,” Steve said earnestly.

(Steve thought that maybe the  _ trying  _ was what Bucky needed to accomplish. Maybe this was something he’d had to do to heal. The fact that Bucky was asking for help now was  _ huge _ .)

Bucky didn’t respond, so Steve continued, “It wasn’t for nothing. The world has a few less Nazis in it — and now you know how  _ strong  _ you are. If they come back, we can take ‘em.”

Bucky nodded, tears dripping down his neck.

“Rest, doll. We’ll talk about it all in the morning,” Steve soothed as Bucky started to drift again. He must have been fucking exhausted — he passed out soon after against Steve’s chest. When Steve was sure Bucky was asleep, he looked down and brushed the hair off his forehead; it was getting shaggy again. The bruise-like splotches under his eyes, his chapped lips, his stitched and bandaged forearm draped over Steve’s stomach — it hurt to look at. Steve wished more than anything he could take all the pain away. It was so  _ heartbreaking  _ how frequently they ended up in this position — how more often than not, one of them was on the brink of a catastrophe. (Even so, when he stirred in his sleep, Steve thought that he’d rather go through hell with Bucky than be in heaven with anyone else.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t be shy, leave a comment <3


	5. Chapter 5

1943 

_ Bucky, _

_ I hope this finds you safely. I hope  _ **_you’re_ ** _ safe. Everything here feels empty without you. I keep expecting to hear your shoes on the steps; to see you walk through the door. It’s cold at night and I just.. miss you. _

_ You’ve barely been gone two days and I can’t stand it. The sun hasn’t come out since, it seems. Maybe you took it with you. This probably sounds foolish, but I prayed about you. Well, I guess really I threatened to fistfight God himself if he doesn’t bring you home safe. If I get struck by lightning, you’ll know why. _

_ Don’t forget about me, alright? _

_ Love, _

_ S _

_ S, _

_ I didn’t think I remembered how to smile until I received your letter. Please write again soon. I don’t want you to worry your pretty head about me. I’m safe. I haven’t seen much action yet. _

_ I wrote to my sisters. If anything should happen, I couldn’t leave things the way they were with them. If you see Rebecca around, could you give her a hug from me?  _

_ Leave it to your dumb ass to get into a fistfight as soon as I’m not there to watch after you. Your Ma would have smacked you on the knuckles if she knew you said that; dragged you to confession for the blasphemy. (Ha ha.) _

_ I would be remiss not to mention — I’ve been thinking a lot recently. Mostly happy memories. (It’s good to hold onto them in places like these.) Last summer, in particular, is one of my favorites. Keeps me warm thinking about it. All my life, I’ve only ever been  _ _ that _ _ happy with you. Only ever with you. It’s really important to me that you know that.  _

_ And I could never forget about you. Never, never, never.  _

_ I have you in my heart, _

_ Bucky  _

_ Bucky, _

_ As you’ve seen from the insignia, I’m writing this from New Jersey. Camp Lehigh. I didn't want to say anything until I knew for sure. Don’t be cross with me. Please. I know you said not to do anything stupid. Maybe this is stupid; this might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. But they want me for a special project. I can’t say too much. _

_ I’m finally useful, Buck, I can finally  _ _ do  _ _ something — pull my weight. I have to. I know you’d roll your eyes if you were here. I need you to know I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone but myself. I’m not doing this for the country or to make anyone proud. I’m doing this because it’s the right thing. Because Ma always told me to stand up. _

_ I hope you’re okay. Write to me soon. _

_ All my love, _

_ S _

_ Bucky, _

_ I haven’t heard from you; and I hope it’s because you’re angry. I can’t handle the alternative. Curse at me, swear at me, I can take it — just .. write me back.  _

_ A lot has happened in the past few days and I’m sorry I can’t tell you more than that. I’m scared for tomorrow. I’m scared for you; but I’m trying really hard to be brave. There are a few things I need to say. I can’t take this with me to my grave. If something happens.. I  _ _ can’t _ _ take this to my grave.  _

_ The night before you left, I had every intention of telling you, but I lost my nerve. The way you were looking at me — I just couldn’t do it, I would have cried again.  _

_ Bucky Barnes, you’re the most important person in my life. There’s no possible way to convey how deeply you’ve impacted me without sounding like a sap. And I know I’m not supposed to feel like this, but I can’t see a life without you. I know people talk. I know what they say about us. I know you’ve given up so much to even continue our friendship. I owe you everything. When this is over — and, Bucky, I can’t see an end of this horrible war where we don’t  _ _ both _ _ make it home, so please just indulge me for a moment — when this is over I want to go somewhere quiet. I think we’ll both need the quiet. Just us. Does that sound okay?  _

_ All _ _ my love, _

_ S _

_ Ps _

_ I’m sorry for the ink smudges.  _

_ Bucky, _

_ I'm writing this as an apology in advance, I’m sending it right behind my last letter. I’m sorry if what I said was out of line, but I don’t regret saying it.  _

_ If it’s alright with you, I’ll keep writing. (Unless… unless you decide you  _ _ don’t _ _ want to speak to me.) It makes me feel like you’re not so far away — across a whole ocean. _

_ If you find yourself in the position to write back, know that I would really love to hear from you.  _

_ All my love, _

_ S _

_ Bucky, _

_ I’m trying not to think the worst, but sometimes I’m terrified. I don’t know if you’ve gotten any of my letters. Write when you can, please. You keep yourself safe.  _

_ It turns out I’m not what they wanted. I’m not enough. I feel like more of a showgirl than a soldier— a dancing monkey. I got myself into this because I wanted to help, but I’m a joke.  _

_ This is the loneliest I’ve ever felt, Buck. I see thousands of faces every day. But I’m alone. Entirely, completely alone. You’re the only person I want to talk to and you’re not here. Everything reminds me of you. _

_ I have to believe you’re still out there somewhere. Maybe I’ll see you soon, I’m going overseas. I know how unlikely it is, but God, I hope I see you.  _

_ I might look a little different, but I hope you’ll recognize me. I hope you don’t mind. Promise you won’t laugh. _

_ All my love, _

_ S _

Steve had kept it vague — kept out a lot of detail in case  _ the love  _ he’d put into his letters fell into the wrong hands. Protecting Bucky; he’d always been protecting Bucky. After all the years; after all that had happened, Steve had never forgotten what he’d written. Even though Bucky most likely had only ever received his first letter. Even when Bucky’s silence was like writing to a dead man — even though it  _ hurt  _ to remember.

In the stillness of the safe house, with his shoulders pressed to the headboard and Bucky asleep against his chest, Steve closed his eyes. He draped an arm around Bucky loosely, rubbing his back in soothing circles.

He didn’t dare drift off again, though. Last time, he had jolted himself awake only twenty minutes later thinking Bucky was still dying. Unconsciously, Steve was still there with him on the bathroom floor — Steve was dying too. Hands feeling hot and sticky like blood, Steve had not relaxed again until he felt for Bucky’s heartbeat — until he could prove Bucky was still breathing. 

The chaos of the night prior left the whole house uneasy — thrown into a washing machine set to heavy duty. No one could sleep for more than a few hours at a time. ( _ No one _ wanted to see Bucky go.) 

Sam made sure everything was stable before he went to bed — the adrenaline crash that came in the aftermath of emergency first-aid was starting to kick his ass. Steve insisted he go get some rest.

Hovering, Natasha kept finding herself coming back to Steve's bedroom doorway to ensure he and Bucky were both okay. More often than not, Steve would be awake to see her come by, silhouetted by the light in the hall. Bucky would be talking in his sleep; whimpering under his breath things Steve couldn’t decipher — or he’d be conscious, but a bit less than coherent. 

Bringing up bottles of water, some extra blankets, pillows from the living room, Natasha was clearly too agitated — too upset — to keep still. Steve murmured a thank you.

Natasha had asked, what seemed like forever ago, who Steve wanted her to be. She was  _ probably  _ flirting with him at the time, but he’d replied, ‘ _ how about a friend?’  _ And she’d done it — she’d become one of the best friends Steve had ever had. (He’d never said so, but Steve thought when she asked, she  _ really  _ needed a friend as well.) 

She sat with Steve for moral support, through the end of the night. Sitting cross-legged on the storage chest at the end of the bed, Natasha talked to him. They spoke in hushed voices — Steve caught her up on everything that had happened; on what little Bucky had told him. He skirted around some of the more painful details.

Staring past Natasha, unable to look her in the face, Steve mentioned the way he felt like a coward — how, try as he might, he’d never live up to the  _ hero _ he was supposed to be; how they had placed these ridiculously high expectations on him that he’d always be letting people down. He’d let  _ Bucky  _ down. (Natasha wholeheartedly disagreed with that sentiment. She always said she hated the way Steve had been treated after he thawed out.) 

She stayed until the sky outside started to lighten; dawn was starting to break. Steve shooed her off to try to sleep.

*

Waking up to the pressure, the pull, the heaviness of still being alive; of still being in a body that had to deal with the consequences of his actions, Bucky groaned and rubbed at his bleary eyes with the back of his metal hand. “Ugh.  _ Ow _ . I’m getting ‘do not resuscitate’ tattooed on my chest.”

Steve’s hand stilled on his back. “ _ Buck _ ,” he sighed, letting his head fall back against the headboard. 

“I’m kiddin’, I’m kiddin’, Stevie. ‘m sorry, that wasn’t funny,” Bucky croaked, closing his eyes and tucking his head into Steve’s shoulder, leaving a soft kiss on his sternum as an apology. Maybe it was too soon — he wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep — but Bucky had to joke about it. 

It hurt. Any movement at all was excruciating. When he shifted closer to Steve under the covers, Bucky grimaced; curled his lip, but didn’t complain. He would never let Steve know how bad this was. Dissipating, ceasing to exist would be  _ easier.  _ It was harder to fight. It  _ hurt.  _ But it was  _ doable.  _

Steve looked down at him apologetically. “We don’t have much by way of pain medication for people like us. But we do still have a sedative —.”

Almost imperceptibly, Bucky shook his head. “No, no drugs,” Bucky needed to stay lucid. Already having missed so much, he needed to be present. Both because he wanted to be there with Steve and because he  _ needed  _ to be alert in case something  _ happened. _

So that was that.

“Okay. It’s your call,” Steve assured. Listening to the thunder of Steve’s voice with an ear against his chest; Bucky squinted up at him. 

Lifting his heavily bandaged arm, Bucky touched fingertips hesitantly to the chain around Steve's neck, ran his thumb over the dog tags. With vision still just a little hazy, he blinked a few times before stringing a question together.

“Are those.. mine?” Bucky’s voice was deep and slow, rough with sleep. Half enamored by death— the idea of dying, half in shock he was even here with Steve at all. 

“They are,” Steve sounded shyer, more sheepish — like he had back in school. Swallowed up in nostalgia, Bucky pressed his face into Steve’s broad chest. (Again, like it was becoming his favorite place to hide.)

_ In the war, they had made a habit of exchanging sometimes — although, only ever when people wouldn’t see; wouldn’t catch on. It was unprompted by words the first time it happened; quiet in lowlight, under the stars, they were the last two around the fire for the night. Sitting on the trunk of a downed tree, Steve was unsure of what Bucky was doing when he knelt in front of him, but it made something in his heart stutter.  _

_ Bucky's expression was so intense, it almost scared him. He opened his mouth soundlessly when Bucky leaned in. It was symbolic; the way Bucky slipped his chain over Steve’s head and solemnly murmured, “To keep you safe.  _ **_I’ll_ ** _ keep you safe.” _

_ Nodding dumbly, hands numb, Steve had fumbled with his own dog tags to place around Bucky’s neck, pressed a palm to Bucky’s cheek. They didn’t have to say anything else. _

_ Steve ate up — reveled in — the way it felt like an oath, like engagement jewelry; like keeping Bucky's name against his heart would be the thing that pulled him through. Their custom transformed from something done when either of them got anxious about a mission into something more like a sacrament — something they would do every night that would be quietly undone in the morning. _

_ Keeping Bucky’s dog tags with him, knowing his name was over Bucky's heart too, meant Steve would be with him, protecting him. There was power in that. Maybe their silly superstition hadn’t been for nothing, because Bucky had been wearing his own when he fell. _

_ Maybe this time, in a new century, his name on Steve’s chest had dragged him back from the dead — had called him home. _

“I fucked up real bad,” Bucky sighed, muffled against Steve’s skin. He must have, considering Steve’s choice in accessories. “You thought I wasn’t coming back.” He’d resigned himself to the way this was going to be — live by the sword, die by the sword. It came with the territory. But he would have been leaving Steve to deal with the by-products of his disaster — he would have left Steve in the wake of the wave.

Steve could have said,  _ ‘Buck, you almost didn’t make it back.’  _ Instead, he said, “No. You did what you had to. I’m just… I’m glad you’re still here.” If it was cathartic, even minutely, it needed to happen. He couldn’t have held Bucky back even when he’d  _ lost  _ him once. (He’d lost so much.)

Steve carded fingers through Bucky's hair, making a mental note to ask him later if he wanted it trimmed again or if he intended to grow it out — it was longer by a few inches.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky hated that he felt like he had to go on an apology tour, but Steve (and Natasha and Sam) deserved  _ something  _ from him. 

Steve shouldn’t have had to watch him die again. Quietly adding that to the list of reasons he  _ despised  _ himself, Bucky decided he’d been selfish.  _ God knew _ Steve hadn’t done great with the mourning process the first go-around. But he needed Steve, he didn’t want to go out alone. Torn between wanting to  _ apologize  _ for the rampage he’d gone on and feeling  _ satisfied with his actions,  _ all Bucky could do was say,  _ ‘sorry, sorry, sorry.’ _

Steve wouldn’t have any more apologies, though. He placed a thumb against Bucky’s bottom lip. After an introspective silence, Bucky dragged his pinkie over Steve’s chest. “What you said before about fighting together. You mean it?”

“ _ Yes. _ When the time comes — whatever we need to do — we can do it together. But look, we gotta pace ourselves. You’re gonna be out of commission for a while,” Steve’s face said  _ ‘I’m not budging in this _ ’; like it was some kind of a backwards ultimatum — the polar opposite of what Bucky had been used to. It was almost  _ funny  _ hearing Steve say he could kill Hydra agents,  _ but only _ if he took a break first.

“Fine,” Bucky yielded softly.

“We regroup, we do it right this time — strategize,” Steve said. This was going to be a war of attrition. They’d have to wage it slowly.

“And,” Steve continued, “you’re gonna fucking promise me you won’t even  _ think _ about a mission for at least a month.”

Bucky wanted to say, ‘A  _ month?’  _ — to complain, but he’d almost just died in Steve’s arms. He owed him at least this. (He owed him more than this.) So, he just sighed a promise.

Now that Bucky was awake enough that his mind was running, he had a lot of questions. “It’s my fault, ain’t it? We’re hiding because of me?”

“No, we’re hiding because of me.  _ I _ wanted to get the government involved with taking down a Nazi organization, but apparently that's above my pay grade. I did that. And Sam and Nat,” Steve explained. He squeezed Bucky’s shoulder comfortingly. When Bucky didn’t answer back right away, Steve sobered. “Don’t blame yourself, Buck. I made my choice.”

Bucky hummed, “okay.” Though he shifted nervously and started counting, naming things around the room to quell his intrusive thoughts. There were a lot more pillows than he remembered. 

“Was Natasha here?” Bucky asked. His mind was notorious for playing tricks on him but he could have sworn he remembered her voice.

“She was. She was worried last night. There’s crackers and water on the nightstand if you need it,” Steve said.

“Worried about me?” Bucky asked, brow wrinkled. “But I  _ shot her. Twice.”  _ He would have  _ understood  _ if Natasha harbored resentment toward him. If she wouldn’t have been all that disappointed at his passing.

“That wasn’t  _ you.  _ Water under the bridge,” that was always Steve’s answer when they talked about his past actions. Though now, Bucky worried that he and the Soldier were more alike than he wanted to acknowledge. Trying to understand how he’d become worthy of all this boundless forgiveness, he was coming up short. 

Looking down at Bucky, Steve could practically see the wheels turning. “Sugar, everyone here cares about you so much.”

“I don’t.. I don’t understand why.” His fingers tapped nervously. 

Steve opened and closed his mouth, encircling both of his arms around Bucky. There was a galaxy of wonderful things in all that Bucky was. Not feeling articulate enough to _explain it,_ Steve promised, “I’ll show you, Buck. One day you’ll see yourself like I see you.” He ran a thumb over Bucky’s cheek.

He would do whatever —  _ anything _ — Bucky needed. (He would rip the goddamn star off his chest. He would stop a fucking helicopter for Bucky — drag it right out of the sky. Though, he still felt a twinge in his shoulder sometimes.)

Bucky was still sweaty; dried blood stained his hands and streaked the skin that wasn’t covered in bandages. (He felt dirty — he felt  _ bad  _ for bleeding on Steve’s clothes.)

Now that Steve was able to get a good look at him in the daylight; now that he could feel the sharpness of his vertebrae, of his ribs, getting Bucky fed had taken precedence. “I’ll help you get cleaned up in a little bit.” Steve promised, shifting carefully like he was about to get out of bed. “You need food. When’s the last time you ate?”

Bucky honestly, truly couldn’t remember. Maybe it was a few days ago? Time was strange — it all felt the same. 

Full of anxious energy thinking of the way Bucky must have been living while he was on the road, Steve went downstairs to start making breakfast — more like brunch now, it was nearly 11 — for everyone. It was the least Steve felt like he could do.

Natasha went upstairs to keep an eye on Bucky, leaving Sam and Steve in the kitchen. (Maybe Bucky was still a flight risk — but Steve very much doubted that. He thought it was probably more to do with Natasha being scared to lose a friend.)

Natasha kept her tone light, sitting on the storage chest at the end of the bed. Now that Bucky was back home and  _ okay,  _ Natasha was having an absolute field day. “So,  _ l’vionachik _ .”

Bucky answered without opening his eyes. “ _ Chto _ ,  _ Nathashenka _ .”

“How long has  _ this  _ been going on?” She raised her eyebrows and inclined her head toward the doorway — a reference to Steve downstairs. 

“I.. don’t know whatcha mean,” Bucky deflected, avoiding her pointed gaze. 

“Don’t bullshit me, Barnes,” Natasha smiled.

Bucky passingly considered pretending to fall back asleep. Natasha never would have bought that, though. Bucky’s eyebrow quirked up, questioning. 

“That explains why Steve was never interested in the women I tried to set him up with,” Nat said.

Bucky bit his lip to contain a smirk — which was confirmation enough. Nat backed off, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, giving him a genuine smile. “For real, though. You both deserve some happiness; you’ve been through so much.”

Talking about his feelings like this should have probably been more embarrassing, but Bucky was too tired to care. It was nice; it warmed his chest and colored his cheeks. 

“Thanks, Nat,” he murmured. He meant it.

“I regret trying to sign him up for seniormatch.com.”

Bucky laughed a real, genuine laugh but winced when it pulled at his stitches.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” Natasha said more seriously, fidgeting with her necklace. “Drink some water.” 

Bucky wanted to tell her not to fuss over him, but this was  _ good. This was a distraction.  _ For a handful of moments he could forget he felt like  _ death _ in the most literal sense.

*

When Steve came upstairs with breakfast, Bucky didn’t have much of an appetite, but he insisted Bucky make an effort to eat. 

(So he did, although it felt like rocks in his stomach.)

“That’s good, Buck, you need it. You need your strength,” Steve didn’t want to lecture him — didn’t want to tell Bucky he’d get  _ sick  _ if he didn’t start taking better care of himself. He didn’t think the Good Cap Bad Cap routine was appropriate for this situation. But he knew he had to get it through Bucky's thick head somehow. Constant encouragement would have to suffice. He told Bucky to take his time, but that he wasn’t getting up until he ate at least half of what Steve had put in front of him.

So he did. It was  _ slow,  _ but he did. When Steve helped him stand, though, Bucky was hit with a wave of faintness. He had to reach out and brace himself against the wall. Steve kept his arm around Bucky’s waist, bearing his weight to keep him from falling on the short walk to the hallway bathroom. 

Turning on the shower, Steve helped him find his balance. “Do you need help getting in?” 

Bucky shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, Stevie.”

Steve nodded, rummaging in the cabinet under the sink for a new toothbrush, face wash, anything else he might need. 

Steve sat outside the bathroom, though, back against the door in case of any signs of distress. After a few minutes, he heard what sounded like shampoo bottles clattering to the shower floor. Startling, Steve called, “ _ Buck?  _ You okay?”

“Stevie,” Bucky said back softly, “‘m dizzy.”

Steve was on his feet immediately, pushing open the door. He grabbed the towel from the rack and threw back the curtain to shut the shower off and wrap Bucky up.

Bucky’s steps faltered, his eyelids fluttered and he was sinking to the shower floor. “Oh, honey, lie back. Stay with me,” Steve cooed, only chastised him half heartedly. “Why are you so fucking stubborn, you know I would’ve helped ya.”

Bucky figured his blood pressure had probably dropped. The water was too hot and he shouldn’t have pushed himself. His mouth felt full of cotton; tasted like copper. The only noise was the hum of the bathroom fan. Steve sat with him until he started coming back around. After the buzzing in his ears faded, Steve helped him dry off, helped him change his bandages and clothes — helped him back to his room. 

Bucky sat on the floor, head still swimming as Steve changed the bedsheets. Wishing he could help instead of feeling so useless, he huffed out a breath and leaned his back against the wall. 

“You okay?” Steve hesitated, looked at him with big, concerned eyes from across the room.

“Yeah. ‘m okay,” Bucky promised. “All the times I get my clothes off in front of you, I wish it was for better reasons,” he grinned, dimpling.

Steve blushed and rolled his eyes. Bucky winked. Bucky knew he did that — talked a big game; joking and flirting because he didn’t know what else to do. Humor was his coping mechanism and he figured there were worse ones to have.

Helping Bucky stand up, Steve reached out his hands to steady him. Bucky winced in pain, but he set his jaw, bit his tongue and wouldn’t make a sound while he settled back into bed. As Steve went to pull away — to let him get some much deserved rest — Bucky caught his hand.

Steve paused, “what is it?”

But Bucky didn’t answer, instead tugged Steve down until he was sitting on the edge of the bed; down to his level. Bucky cradled his face in both hands, kissed so sleepily, so languidly. He hummed against Steve’s mouth. 

“What was that for?” Steve asked when they broke apart a minute later.

“I love you. Wanted to make sure that you know,” Bucky whispered. Eyes bleary but moon-bright, he ran his thumb over Steve’s jaw.

“I do know,” Steve promised, kissing his forehead, murmuring a ‘love you, too’ against the skin there.

“Try to rest now, okay?”

Bucky tossed and turned, struggling to find a comfortable position that also kept the pressure off of his arm. He held a pillow to his chest, draped his arm over top of it to keep it elevated, and pretended that he could bury himself under cushions to escape from the world.

*

Steve had a pounding headache. He felt like he’d been holding his breath for nearly 24 hours. Dropping down onto the couch, he stared up at the ceiling. 

“Hey,” Sam said, shifting weight between his feet nervously in front of Steve. He was apprehensive, holding a Manila folder in his hands. Steve glanced up at him. “I know this is probably the last thing you want to do right now, but you need to read this.”

Steve took the folder in his hands, flipping through the first few loose papers. This wasn’t a file he had seen before. “Where did this come from?”

“Bucky left his bag in the hallway — I wasn’t  _ snooping.  _ Things probably fell out when he dropped it. My guess is he picked this up from someone he was tracking. I think we were closer to a lead than we realized,” Sam explained.

Steve nodded. “Alright. Let’s get the team together,” he said.  _ Yes _ , Steve was tired and achy and sore, but this was bigger than him. So, he  _ stood up _ and followed Sam to their pieced-together war room.

*

The nightmare started the way it  _ always _ started. Bucky was in a dark room. He felt  _ stinging  _ like salt in his wounds. It was so  _ real  _ and tangible he tasted the blood in his mouth. He couldn’t see, but they’d  _ whipped  _ him, demanding a name this time. His handler was piecing it together; figuring out Bucky’s innermost secrets so they could  _ break him. _

When they’d started suspecting he was gay, they’d made everything  _ so much worse. _ Bucky had tried, all his life, to keep that card close to his chest — but it had been ripped from his hands.

But Bucky didn’t care.  _ He didn’t care, he didn’t care _ ; he’d protect Steve with everything he had. He wouldn’t let them know. He wouldn’t let them have Steve. Hydra could torture him as much as they wanted. They had already done everything imaginable to him, but they could. Not. Have. Steve. 

Oh, but  _ God  _ did they try. It was hell. Bucky was in hell; dark and deep. They could get things out of him — things like his worst fears; his most painful memories. 

Even in the melee, though, Bucky had drawn a line in the sand. Bucky had set his feet, ground his teeth and  _ pushed back  _ when they had demanded a  _ name.  _ They couldn’t  _ have  _ it. Not even when they’d dragged him off that mountain months later — made his trigger words  _ seventeen  _ and  _ freight car,  _ and any other thing reminiscent of the most traumatic times of his life. Not even when they took every other secret from him. Not even when they  _ promised  _ the pain would stop.

Through the blood and agony, Hydra could never ever get him to out Steve. All they could do was  _ suspect _ , but he wouldn’t  _ fucking  _ tell them. That was  _ his.  _ That was  _ his _ and  _ Steve’s _ only. He wasn’t going to give them another reason to  _ put their hands on Steve _ . They couldn’t have Steve — couldn’t even pry his name from Bucky’s lifeless cold dead hands.

Bucky woke up frantically, crying, muffling his sobs in the navy blue sheets. God, it was so  _ jarring  _ waking up in the dark and in  _ pain _ . It took him a while to understand that he  _ wasn’t  _ in a cell.

Sam and Steve came bounding up the stairs. (Damn Steve’s super hearing. Bucky really hated to bother him again.)

When Steve realized it was a nightmare — that Bucky wasn’t actually  _ dying  _ again — he nodded at Sam, letting out a breath. “I got him, ‘s okay.”

Sinking down beside him, Steve promised it was just a dream. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. We’re at a safe house, it’s 2018,” he soothed. 

“Sorry. I — I’m really sorry,” Bucky placed hands over his eyes.

“All that time I was sick as a kid and you looked out for me, did you ever let me feel like a burden?” Steve reasoned.

“You weren’t,” Bucky murmured.

“Neither are you. You’re just hurt, Buck. Let us help you,” Steve remembered when Bucky had said that exact thing to  _ him _ . After his mom had died Bucky refused to let him be alone with his grief. (Steve moved in with him 2 weeks later.) “Do you wanna talk about it?” Steve slid in beside Bucky and let him adjust into his arms, his back to Steve’s chest. Steve curled around him like the big spoon.

Bucky’s first instinct was to say no _.  _ He didn’t want to talk about it, it hurt too much — but maybe keeping it in hadn’t ever felt any better. “I.. yeah. If... if that’s okay?” 

Steve had been expecting a hard  _ no,  _ but he hid his shock well. “Can you look at me?” He could feel Bucky’s breathing falter. 

“I can’t. If I do, I won’t be able to say it,” Bucky was resolved, like this would otherwise be eating away at him. Steve understood.

It made Bucky nauseous to talk about, but it had to be done. He tried and failed to keep the emotion out of his voice. “Maybe it’s all in my head, or maybe they ruined me,” Bucky took a breath before he could continue. Steve waited patiently for him to go on. “When they had me at Azzano.. they figured it out. They knew. Made it worse.”

Another crack formed in Steve’s heart as he processed what Bucky meant. 

Bucky told him about the nightmares, though he  _ did  _ leave out some of the worst parts. When Steve asked if it had been getting worse or better, Bucky didn’t know how to answer. He told Steve there were fewer panic attacks — that they didn’t last as long. His tolerance — his  _ pain threshold _ was high. He could handle it. He could numb himself if he needed to. He could  _ turn it off. _

Kissing the top of his head, Steve said, “Feeling  _ less _ doesn’t mean you’re feeling better, Buck.”

Steve stayed with him until he was asleep again.

*

Taking the stairs two at a time and shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, Steve needed to take a walk around the block while Bucky was out. It was a  _ lot _ ; and if he did  _ lose it _ , he didn’t want to do it in their tiny kitchen — in front of everyone. He’d break into a million pieces where the shrapnel couldn’t ricochet off the walls and cut anyone.

Natasha called after him, alarmed. Already halfway out the door, he replied that he just needed a second to himself. He just needed a  _ minute _ out in the cool night air because he’d only seen the aftermath of the trigger words — could only have  _ assumed _ the trauma that led to them. But now there was no gray area; no willful ignorance. The files on Bucky’s captivity had barely scratched the surface. 

He was  _ glad  _ Bucky trusted him enough to tell him— he trusted him  _ so  _ much — but God, it made Steve  _ so fucking sad.  _

Steve remembered how difficult a process it was to render those words useless. He _vividly_ remembered the process of testing Bucky's triggers in Wakanda, insisting on being with him every time. If that was perdition for _him,_ he couldn’t imagine how Bucky felt.

Walking down the dark neighborhood street, every so often being illuminated by a streetlight. When Steve reached the empty playground, he sat down heavily on a swing. He thought about Bucky's convalescence now; how much pain he must be in. Steve thought about Bucky's triggers.

_ In Wakanda, under buzzing harsh fluorescents and medical supervision, Bucky was essentially still a prisoner. It had been too early on — nobody but Steve trusted him  _ **_completely_ ** _. They hadn’t even given him a new arm yet, to keep this process safer for all parties involved. The ‘get well soon’ cards and flowers Steve brought him (nearly every visit) were accumulating. Bucky didn’t always remember everything, but he remembered enough to keep Steve blindly hopeful.  _

_ There had been a few unsuccessful attempts at deprogramming him. During one of his more violent outbursts, Bucky had caught Steve with a backhand by mistake as he struggled. When he woke up from the sedation and saw the horrible, yellowing bruise on Steve’s cheek, God he was so sorry, he was so sorry, he was  _ **_devastated_ ** _. That didn’t dissuade Steve from standing next to Bucky the next time, though — from holding his hand; from preventing Bucky from digging his nails into his own skin. _

_ It was hard watching; feeling powerless. It was hard for Steve having to see him be put under afterwards — every time waking up scared and panicking.  _

_ Steve stood beside Bucky as he sat on a cold, impersonal examination table. Bucky was nervous, eyeing the guards posted at the doors — very aware of the probability that he’d lose touch. In a few minutes, Bucky might be asleep at the wheel. Once, he’d talked to Steve about what that felt like.  _

_ Bucky was fucking scared and Steve could feel it on him when he held his hand.  _

_ “It’ll be okay, Buck. Just breathe,” Steve promised; kept his voice soft and calm. Bucky nodded, unnervingly mute.  _

_ Steve remembered Bucky’s shallow breathing. He remembered the way Bucky looked at him — the special, soft look he reserved just for Steve. The expression on his face convinced Steve the old Bucky was still in there somewhere. _

_ “Ready?” Shuri asked, holding a notebook in her hands. She smiled, staying positive. _

_ Steve watched Bucky’s face; the way a muscle in his jaw jumped. Steve wanted to cry — wanted to call it all off — over the way this must feel so similar to the torture he’d been forced to endure. He knew, though, that this was necessary. _

_ Smoothing his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles, Steve promised without words that he would stay right there. Bucky squeezed his hand back in response.  _

_ A few deep breaths and Bucky nodded. “Yes.” _

_ Steve watched him tuck his head down and close his eyes, bracing himself as Shuri started reading. T’Challa stood a few feet away, attentive and ready to intervene in the event of an emergency. _

_ Bucky’s hand had started to shake — his whole body was trembling. Steve was preparing for him to lash out, for the possibility that they were losing him again.  _

_ As Shuri said ‘freight car’, Steve felt like they were too far gone to pray. Feeling so helpless, he wished he could take all the fear away. The sterile white hospital room was too cold, too bright. Bucky was starting to breathe too shallowly.  _

_ When Shuri finished reading, it was deathly silent. The only noise was the beeping of Bucky’s racing heartbeat on the monitor in the cavernous room. Bucky didn’t move his head, didn’t look up. There was only the steady rise and fall of his chest. _

_ “Sergeant Barnes?” T’Challa tried, hesitantly. _

_ Then Bucky’s body was wracked in sobs — dropping Steve’s heart. _

_ “Bucky, Bucky,” Steve coaxed. God, no. Not again — Bucky shouldn’t have to go through this again. _

_ Shuri took a step backward. The guards at the door shifted uneasily.  _

_ “I’m..  _ **_here_ ** _.”  _

_ Steve almost fell to his knees. It was like being hit by lightning —like this was nothing short of an act of God. Steve wasn’t expecting this; not in his wildest dreams. _

_ Tears were dripping down Bucky's face and onto his shirt. “I’m here, I’m free,” Bucky choked out. “I’m free.”  _

_ He pulled Steve against him. Tears stung Steve’s own eyes as he buried his head into Bucky's shoulder and wrapped his arms around him. Steve was always so careful not to touch Bucky unless he initiated it. Although now, with the green light, he melted into him.  _

_ (They’d always held each other so soft and sweet — since the beginning of time.)  _

_ The iron grip on Steve’s heart loosened, though he couldn’t speak, consumed with overwhelming pride and happiness and relief. It had been such a long, hard fight and they were finally beginning to see some progress. _

_ “Buck,” Steve murmured into his hair, cupping the back of Bucky’s head and let his tears soak his shirt.  _

_ Shushing Bucky — soothing him — Steve wanted to say that  _ **_yes_ ** _ he was free, and he was safe. Bucky could start living again and he deserved it so, so much. He deserved safety and love and comfort. He didn’t deserve the torment he’d endured. _

_ Steve wanted to tell Bucky that none of it was ever his fault. (It wasn’t Bucky’s fault that the brightest stars burn out the fastest. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault that catching him like a meteorite had burned Steve’s hands.) _

_ He wanted to say so many beautiful things to Bucky but his tongue felt numb and heavy. So Steve just rubbed steady circles into his back. _

_ Shuri exclaimed that this was cause for celebration. She shared a knowing look with T’Challa — biting her lip to hide a smirk. Steve caught it out of the corner of his eye.  _

_ In retrospect, maybe Steve wouldn’t have been surprised if Shuri had later heard the rumor floating around the village that the White Wolf and Captain Rogers were married. Maybe he wouldn’t have been surprised if Shuri hadn’t had the heart to disprove it. _

_ Bucky thanked Steve so many times for being there — for staying with him and not letting him go through it alone. When Bucky looked up at him, eyes watery, Steve couldn’t have imagined wanting to be anywhere else. He felt dark blue, ocean deep and wild. _

_ A love like this was worth fighting tooth and nail for. Steve could see the vast expanse of forever in the cerulean of his eyes. And if Bucky didn’t feel the same, then that was okay. La douleur exquise — the most wonderful pain. But Steve would go on loving him with all he had. _

Steve walked back to the safe house in silence. 

*

By the time the next morning came around, Bucky was feeling stronger — albeit only scarcely. He was sitting up on his own, looking for things to do to stave away the boredom. (And to distract him from the pain.)

Steve brought him the few books they had laying around the house and went through his boxes from the Tower to find anything Bucky hadn’t read yet. A new Killers album had come out while Bucky was away; they listened to it together like they were back in Brooklyn — like they’d  _ always _ listened to new records together.

Spending some soft days, like honey, sweet and warm and medicative, Bucky was getting up and walking around Steve’s room on his own. When Steve would help him change his bandages, he noticed how well everything was healing up, though it was indisputably still fresh enough for Bucky to be in a lot of pain he wouldn’t vocalize. 

Bucky felt guilty that Steve had put his life on hold to hover over him — to supervise his recovery — regardless of it only being a few days so far. It wasn’t all good. Bucky  _ knew  _ he was a lot to deal with. Sometimes, Bucky trembled so hard in his sleep the bed would shake. Sometimes he’d spiral, remembering all the innocent lives he’d taken.

Bucky had once confided to Steve, in passing, that when he saw the darkest parts of him, Bucky expected him to leave. Steve’s mouth had fallen open at that. How long had Bucky felt that way — that somehow the sins of his past had made him unworthy? How long had he been carrying that weight around with him— as if Steve didn’t love him so completely and unconditionally that nothing else mattered? What else was Bucky keeping to himself?

Physically, a few days had given Bucky back a lot of his strength. Mentally, on the other hand, was a different story. Bucky asked gently if he could have some time alone. He hadn’t been left completely unsupervised really at all since he had showed up. Though, as soon as he’d made that decision, he wasn’t sure it was the right one. He spent a lot of time that afternoon watching the shadows on the wall.

When the sun sank below his windowpane, he watched the panels of light crawl across the floor. He remembered the last time he felt this low — he couldn’t do this again. It was times like these that, if he still had a gun in his bag; if they hadn’t taken it from him — if Steve wasn’t right downstairs — he would have pulled the fucking trigger.

And what was  _ wrong  _ with him? Steve had just fought so hard to drag him back from the dead. He couldn’t  _ do  _ this. Bucky knew his passive suicidal ideation came in waves. He knew, logically, he’d be okay in a few minutes if he could distract himself. So, he wrapped his aching body in a blanket and left the room.

Steve was up, pouring coffee into his cup despite the late hour as Bucky eased down the stairs, wrapped in the duvet from his bed. Even injured, Bucky moved soundlessly. No one looked up until he was coming into the kitchen. Sam and Nat exchanged a startled glance from the kitchen island — neither of them were expecting Bucky to be up and moving so  _ much  _ so soon. Steve shared their surprise.

Bucky didn’t look anything like the deadliest assassin in the world. He was all sleep-tousled hair and tired eyes. There was so much softness underneath the hard protective front he had built for himself. Steve felt fortunate Bucky had ever let him in at all.

Nat pushed her laptop screen slightly closed — it was an unspoken agreement that they wouldn’t talk shop around Bucky while he was healing. Bucky took notice, but tried not to let it sting.

“Buck? What’s wrong?” Steve was worried, setting his coffee cup on the counter behind him. 

“Nothin’, Stevie,” Bucky said softly, walking into Steve’s open arms. “Just.. cold. Take a break.”

Steve didn’t acknowledge the way he was trembling — which spared him the embarrassment of having to address the fact that he was on a downswing; that the panic was going to cave his chest in. Instead Steve slipped his hands under the blanket, held Bucky to his chest and tucked his head under his chin right there in the dimly lit kitchen — right there in front of Natasha and Sam. Instead, he said low, under his breath so only Bucky could hear, “Sit your ass down, you’re scaring me.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and sighed, not moving from Steve’s embrace. “Take a  _ break _ .”

Maybe he was right that Steve worked too much — that he was pushing himself too hard. But Steve had to; otherwise it would all start to get to him. They hadn’t forgotten about Hydra — in fact, some of the documents Bucky had brought home in his backpack proved to be surprisingly helpful.

It had really only been a  _ few days.  _ The first floor bathroom door had remained closed — the events were still too fresh and recent for Steve to even look across the way in its direction. It all still felt so raw.

Sam cocked his head to the side, incredulous. Shrugging one shoulder, Steve was in disbelief that Bucky could possibly be feeling better, but he must have needed a distraction and Steve was happy to be that. Steve didn’t complain when Bucky led him out of the kitchen, one hand in his, the other clasping the duvet closed under his chin.

Trailing behind him to the dark living room, Steve knew Bucky well enough to know he wasn’t feeling okay. (He knew Bucky like the veins in his hand.) He knew the look in Bucky’s avoidant eyes that said he was  _ guilty  _ for bothering Steve this way.

Easing himself onto the couch, Bucky tugged Steve down beside him by the hands and clicked the power button on the remote. The TV came to life with some late night comedy show. Sighing, he rested a hand over the bandages on his abdomen, feeling the stitches twinge and pull uncomfortably — he held comfort in the fact that they’d be taken out soon.

Bucky peaked over the back of the couch to where Natasha and Sam were staring after them — looking as if they’d seen a ghost. (Maybe that’s what he was — had always been — a ghost in the land of the living.) But being alone was starting to get to him.

“You both should take a break too,” Bucky didn’t say, but he wanted to feel the way he felt during family game nights with Natasha — wanted to cling on to every fragment of happiness he could get. Natasha agreed they should all take a break. Asking for movie recommendations, she brought over a huge bowl of popcorn and beers out of the fridge. Sam didn’t even look disdainful at the prospect of spending time in Bucky’s vicinity. Maybe that was something. 

It was different being outside the sanctuary of their old apartment at the Tower. Not only was Bucky constantly on high alert around other people, but he also didn’t want to cross any lines— didn’t want to make anything  _ too _ obvious for Steve’s sake. He didn’t want to put Steve in the uncomfortable position of having to explain — even though Natasha and Sam  _ knew.  _

Even when Bucky was  _ fairly certain  _ he’d confessed his undying love to Steve in front of them while bleeding out on the bathroom floor. How  _ embarrassing.  _ He wanted to bury his head thinking about it. 

More than anything else, Bucky was grateful that the future had brought with it acceptance. He was grateful that no one had anything to say about the way Steve looked at him. (He wondered if maybe Steve’s friends had known from the very beginning.) Though, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how bad things used to be — how scared he’d been growing up. 75 years ago his own father had threatened to call the cops on Bucky himself. 

He draped the other side of the duvet around Steve’s shoulders and slanted himself so his back was against Steve’s chest — propped his feet up on the footrest next to Steve’s. There was so much space available, but this was right where Bucky wanted to be. And Bucky felt like he could breathe easier when he reminded himself that this was  _ okay.  _ There had never been anything wrong with him. Two men were allowed to love each other. Dwelling on that for too long made his chest feel like a helium balloon.

Steve carefully avoided the bandages when he slipped an arm around Bucky’s waist, nuzzled his nose into his hair — hair that smelled like  _ Steve’s  _ shampoo. He didn’t know why he liked that so much.

Natasha and Sam were on the other couch, laughing about something one of the characters in the movie had said. Bucky chuckled too; looked up to ask Steve if he had gotten the joke, but Steve’s eyes weren’t on the screen. Instead, Steve was staring down at him with a soft smile. 

“Sorry, baby. I didn’t hear it,” Steve admitted. He wasn’t paying attention in the slightest. He was too busy admiring the way Bucky looked in his flannel pj pants and his too-big long sleeved shirt. He was too busy letting his heart turn to  _ syrup.  _ Bucky nudged him with his elbow. 

Grabbing a handful of popcorn and holding some out for Bucky to take a piece, Steve really couldn’t believe how lucky they both had to be to be there at all.

*

When they were finally able to take Bucky’s stitches out, he had himself convinced that he was ready to dive back into the world of planning Hydra takedowns. Steve told him absolutely  _ not.  _ It hadn’t been a full month yet and Bucky still needed to focus on getting stronger. 

So with a lot of lighthearted complaining, he did. Bucky spent time resting; he read every book in the house — he read  _ Space Cadet  _ twice. The day he learned how to access ebooks on his iPad — that was a  _ great _ day. He practiced meditation and mindfulness — which Steve didn’t even tease him for. He watered the plants Steve had brought from their old place. Steve couldn’t have left them to die. Bucky wouldn’t have wanted that. He’d even been getting some fresh air — meaning he’d smoke  _ outside  _ on the back porch because Natasha didn’t want the smell in the house.

When Bucky needed a way out of his head, he started training again — running in the evenings. Borrowing Sam’s weights and putting on his headphones, he pretended he couldn’t hear Steve tell him not to overdo it.

And, if the  _ heroes  _ weren’t too busy, they all ate dinner together in the evenings. They were all working a lot, though nobody wanted to give Bucky all the details. By the end of a few weeks, Bucky was starting to feel human again.

Bucky and Steve fell back into an easy routine together; like they had never been apart. (Wasn’t that how it always went? The time and distance couldn’t keep them — they’d find a way back to each other; still  _ stupidly _ in love like two teenagers in Brooklyn.)

Letting Steve work, shut up in the war room for hours, Bucky would be missing him a lot by the end of the day. Often, after they’d both gotten ready for bed Bucky would take his time giving Steve minty toothpaste kisses. He would slip an arm around Steve’s neck and keep him close. Steve would grin against his mouth.

This time in particular, Bucky was feeling _forward,_ though. Shamelessly, he’d escalated the kiss enough that Steve had sat him up on the bathroom counter. 

Bucky’s knees on either side of Steve’s hips, Steve ran palms up his thighs. His skin was burning under his clothes, he was a forest fire.

_ Oh  _ did he love Steve’s mouth. He loved when Steve would kiss from the corner of his lips to his jaw to his  _ neck.  _ Bucky loved the scratch of Steve’s stubble against the delicate skin there. 

Slipping hands under the hem of Steve’s shirt, Bucky felt him jump — just barely — at the chill of metal. Hating his fucking robot arm; hating feeling like a patchwork monster, Bucky sighed. Maybe he couldn’t even love Steve  _ properly—  _ couldn’t love him like he  _ deserved.  _ “‘m sorry,” Bucky broke the kiss, tried to pull his hands away, but Steve wouldn’t let him.

“No, feels  _ nice,”  _ Steve promised against his ear. “Don’t do that. You’re thinkin’ so loud I can hear ya. You’re perfect, Buck.”

Bucky was torn between being so touched-starved he felt like he’d  _ die  _ without Steve’s hands on him, and being sure he didn’t deserve this. Steve felt his hesitation as he gripped the edge of the cold counter. 

“You okay?” Steve asked, cradling Bucky’s face in his hands. Honestly, Bucky  _ didn’t know.  _

“Just.. gimme a second,” Bucky ran his hand through his hair. Still breathing heavily, he pulled away and braced himself against the mirror behind him. 

“Take your time, doll, don’t push yourself,” Steve traced fingertips down his shoulder.

Clenching his fists, willing his hands not to shake, Bucky knew Steve was right — he shouldn’t push himself. This was fine, this was  _ good.  _ The nerves were coming more from a place of  _ excitement  _ than fear, but maybe he needed  _ just a little _ more time. 

“We can stop,” Steve suggested, gently hooking a finger under Bucky’s chin, tilting his head up to meet his eyes. Steve’s soft smile and crinkled brow held nothing but love and understanding. Bucky thought Steve should have told him off for being a tease. He  _ didn’t,  _ though — he never would have done that. Sighing, hiding his face in his hands, Bucky sank into Steve’s arms. 

“It’s okay,” Steve assured. “Tell ya what, sleep on it. And if tomorrow you feel the same, we’ll talk about it.”  _ Talking  _ about it was probably a good idea. Bucky was trying to get better at vocalizing what was wrong.

“What if I’m not enough?” Bucky’s voice cracked. Tucked against Steve’s chest, Bucky felt him stop breathing. Cupping the back of his head, Steve stroked his hair. 

“Not  _ enough? _ Bucky, you’re  _ everything.  _ Everything,” Steve said with so much  _ sincerity  _ Bucky wouldn’t dare disbelieve him. Steve thought Bucky was everything when he was a gangly teenager; that he was everything when he came home dirty from a late shift at the docks and Steve would take his coat. He was everything in his army fatigues, bloody from a skirmish. Bucky was everything 70 years later standing on that bridge aiming a gun at him. Steve would tell him  _ over and over. _

(Maybe Bucky was right — what he had said before. Steve was a fucking angel.)

Bucky  _ could _ have probably kept going — he might have even been  _ okay  _ through the whole thing. But it had been a  _ long  _ wait and he wanted to do this right; and something about the softness in Steve’s voice just made him want to curl up and sleep.

Bucky was impatient, though, and tired of avoiding important conversations. So, when they settled into bed for the night, they  _ did _ talk about it. Because Bucky was  _ positive  _ this is what he wanted. They talked about boundaries and Bucky's fears and reassurances. It was  _ good.  _ Bucky didn’t feel so heavy.

(And when he did finally fall asleep, Steve followed him into his dreams.) 

*

The way Steve moved through the semi-darkness in their room the next morning didn’t do anything to stop Bucky’s thoughts from getting carried away again. (Neither did Steve’s ass in those running shorts.) It must have been around 6 am — everything was still hazy and gray. Nowhere near ready to face the day yet, he watched Steve dress through half-lidded eyes from his side of the bed. Bucky was curled up; his arm around his stomach, making himself small — subconsciously protecting his newly healed injuries. The birds were starting to sing, only quietly now, like they must have woken up just because they knew Steve was awake.

He wasn’t trying to be creepy, but the way Steve looked in the morning light looking for clothes in his dresser— the way he looked so strong pulling a gray Under Armour shirt over his head — it was impossible  _ not  _ to stare. He’d tried for a lot of years not to let lusting after Steve be such an  _ obvious  _ pastime, but  _ fuck,  _ Steve’s slight waist and strong back and  _ shoulders.  _ Wondering if it would be disrespectful to call those  _ tits _ , because holy shit — wondering how he’d ever gotten anything done during the war if Steve was walking around looking like  _ that  _ all the time — Bucky was startled when Steve looked up at him.

Steve caught his eye in the dresser mirror and smiled with his perfect teeth. Embarrassed, Bucky rolled over and shoved his face under the pillow. Steve chuckled, padding across the carpet to kiss the top of Bucky’s head where it stuck out from under the duvet. 

“Come back to bed,” Bucky’s voice was muffled by the fabric. It was worrying that Steve was starting to get even less sleep than him on some nights. He, Natasha, and Sam were all putting a lot of energy into this case. Bucky wished he could help  _ now —  _ but they’d reserved the right to be concerned about sending Bucky off the deep end. He didn’t have a great track record dealing with stressful situations.

“Can’t, babydoll. ‘s my turn to run errands,” Steve sat down on the edge of the mattress and Bucky uncovered his face to look up at him. “Natasha had to make a few calls, but Sam is downstairs if you need someone,” Steve took his hands and held them. “Love you. Rest. I mean it.”

Bucky said, “I love you, too,” as he watched him leave.

*

Bucky had been preoccupied all day — had been thinking about Steve in some of the more  _ compromising _ positions they’d found themselves in during the war. They’d never gotten a good enough chance to act on it — never quite mustered up the courage. They’d gotten so close to giving in, but it wasn’t  _ safe  _ for them there. The Howlies were always just a few felt away — they were already playing with fire. And if a CO had found out.. So Bucky would just say, _ ‘Stevie,’  _ with as much vulnerability as he could put into it, and Steve would breathe back,  _ ‘I know. I know.’  _ And that would be it.

(Steve could have had him — any way he’d wanted; could have had him twelve ways from Sunday. Though, maybe they’d both had some common sense in their self-restraint.) 

But God, Bucky wished something would have happened — wished he would have been able to hold  _ that  _ memory with him. He wished they’d done  _ anything  _ before Bucky had gotten so fucked up — so ruined, so scared. (He could practically hear Steve’s tone of disapproval at that, saying Bucky wasn’t all of those things.) 

Even before that, Bucky had wanted it so bad at the pub, the way he’d smiled cheekily over the rim of his glass. Looking at Bucky like maybe  _ he wanted him back, _ Steve had been so  _ pretty _ in that uniform. Bucky had wanted to reach over and fix his tie, but people were watching in the crowded, dimly-lit bar. So he’d alternatively asked Steve if he’d be keeping the outfit. Trying to be brazen in his words — in the way he couldn’t be with his actions — Bucky spoke low enough for only Steve to hear him, eliciting a coy smile and raised eyebrows.

Bucky had been hoping it wouldn’t be  _ brash  _ if he suggested they go somewhere quieter, a little more private. He’d been about to mention it — devising a way to make himself seem more cool and collected than he’d felt — until all of the bar had gone quiet. The woman standing in front of them had taken all the life from it. (And Bucky knew that wasn’t fair. But it hurt.)

He’d clenched and unclenched his fists when she had sauntered in — looked between Peggy and Steve then back down at the floor. Bucky wasn’t  _ angry _ , as such. Bucky was scared and  _ sad and lost.  _ Even though Steve had said Peggy wasn’t anything more than a friend, it hurt.

The soldiers in the bar were singing their drinking song and he felt like crying. (‘ _ He left me for a damsel dark.’ _ Oh, how that had hurt. _ )  _ Because Peggy would have been good for Steve — she could have given Steve things Bucky couldn’t. Bucky was selfish in a lot of ways — but he couldn’t take this from Steve. 

_ ‘Oh, dig my grave both wide and deep, wide and deep; _

_ Put tombstones at my head and feet, head and feet _

_ And on my breast you may carve a turtle dove, _

_ To signify I died of love.’ _

Bucky must have downed half a bottle of gin after that. (To give his sorrow a name so he could drown in it.)

Though, maybe Bucky’s past self had been a bit misguided. Steve had informed him recently that he’d  _ felt guilty  _ that he couldn’t love Peggy the way he was supposed to. It had never been in him. (Really, he might have blindsided Steve when he’d first brought it up one night in the Tower apartment.)

_ “Did you sleep with her?” Bucky deadpanned.  _

_ Steve choked on his tea, sputtered, “who, Peggy?” _

_ Bucky had nodded — hadn’t looked up from the table. He ran his thumb against the handle of the mug in his hands repetitively. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so blunt. _

_ “No. No, I never slept with her,” Steve reached across the table and held his hand— stilled it before Bucky could inadvertently crack the ceramic. And Bucky hated the sting in his own voice. He hated the way he felt so jealous. Why did it matter? Steve was allowed to sleep with whom he pleased. It wasn’t as if they’d put a label on whatever they were in the war.  _

_ They’d only very recently assigned names like ‘love’ to the feelings they’d carried for each other.  _

_ “She kissed me once — asked me on a date,” Steve sounded embarrassed. A few beats of silence passed — the clock steadily ticked the seconds by as Bucky stared at Steve’s hand covering his. He stroked Steve’s thumb with his. _

_ “And what happened?” Bucky asked, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn’t mean to pry. Really— he didn’t.  _

_ Steve pulled back and scratched his cheek nervously. “I put my plane in the ocean.” _

_ Oh. _

_ Feeling like a jerk, Bucky deflated, the tension leached out of him. “Stevie.. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m bein’ like this.” _

_ He couldn’t work out where all this anguish was directed — if he was more upset with Peggy or himself. Though, Bucky supposed that was the price he was going to have to pay for feeling all of his emotions tenfold. _

_ Without another word, Steve pushed his chair back from the table, stood up and pulled Bucky into his arms. The comfort of it seemed like the only thing keeping Bucky from falling through the kitchen floor.  _

_ “Are ya jealous?” Steve teased.  _

_ Bucky buried his head in Steve’s shoulder; wanted to say no, but that would have been a bold ass lie. Yes he was jealous. He was jealous Peggy could have given Steve a life, kids, a marriage. _

_ The only thing Bucky could give Steve was  _ **_himself,_ ** _ and that wasn’t much. _

_ (Steve could cut open his chest and take his heart. Hell, Bucky would offer up the knife himself. And then Steve’s voice could resurrect him.) _

_ Regardless, when Steve pulled back to look at Bucky’s face, he was grinning. Almost as if he thought this was endearing. _

_ “It’s okay, Buck. You know you’re my best guy,” Steve murmured as Bucky hooked his arms around his waist. Steve should have reprimanded him. He should have brought up all the dates Bucky had gone on when they were young — Bucky would have deserved it. Steve should have been cruel. He wasn’t, though. Of course he wasn’t.  _

_ He kissed Bucky gently — kissed the frown off his lips; kissed away all the sadness borne from the fear that Bucky would lose him. _

_ “She couldn’t hold a candle to you, doll. Wouldn’t trade this for the world,” Steve said, all sincerity and puppy- dog eyes that crinkled at the corners — with those ridiculously long eyelashes. Bucky was smitten. _

_ And he knew Steve meant it. Steve wasn’t in the habit of saying things he didn’t mean. _

Maybe the date never would have happened. Or maybe Steve would have married her because he  _ had to  _ — because people like  _ them _ didn’t get ‘happy ever afters’ like goddamn Snow White, regardless of how much Steve had loved that movie when they’d gone to see it at the theater. But it  _ didn’t matter  _ what  _ would  _ have happened. Through all the years and all the heartache  _ they’d found each other again _ — and that wasn’t for nothing. It couldn’t be.

*

Later that evening, Bucky felt like the anticipation was going to kill him. He’d been so aware of Steve’s proximity to him all day — he’d been stuck in his gravitational pull. 

“Is the offer still on the table?” He murmured against Steve’s ear as they were cleaning up from dinner — Steve washing the dishes; Bucky drying. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows, Steve’s arm brushed Bucky’s metal one. 

Nudging Bucky’s hip with his elbow, Steve said back, “Always.” 

In response, Bucky bit his lip, his cheeks already burning a soft pink. If he wasn’t careful, he’d crack the glass he was drying with a dish towel in his hands. Bucky glanced over his shoulder at Natasha taking a hamper down the basement stairs to the laundry room. Sam was settling down in the living room to watch a hockey game. They could slip out now without any questions.

They probably hadn’t made it  _ subtle—  _ the way they’d disappeared upstairs for the night. (It wasn’t even  _ dark  _ yet.) Steve had barely gotten the door closed and locked behind them before Bucky had him pinned against it. Not that he was complaining; Steve was already drunk off Bucky's presence. Wanted to drink him down, all of him. He couldn’t get enough. 

“Touch me,” Bucky murmured against his lips. He was getting impatient, needy. “This is the most human I’ve felt in so long, fuckin’ touch me, Steve. You can do anything you want to me. Please, I wanna feel something.”

Nearly tripping over the boxes he hadn’t unpacked, Steve backed them away from the door, hands going to Bucky’s waist. “Are you  _ sure?”  _ He asked. He needed Bucky to be sure.

“I’m positive; mean it this time. I feel good. They can’t take  _ this _ from me too, they have no power over me anymore,” Bucky looked resolved, tangling his hand in the back of Steve’s hair, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Okay, just say the word and we’ll stop, yeah?” Steve promised, slipping his hands up the back of Bucky’s shirt. He had to make sure Bucky knew that he was  _ never  _ under any obligation to continue.

Bucky nodded. Not that  _ sex _ was the be-all end-all — it  _ wasn’t _ — but he wanted this so badly. (He had wanted this for  _ so long.)  _ Bucky wanted to reclaim his body as his own. He would decide what happened to it.

All the times Steve had dreamed of this — of grabbing the hem of Bucky’s shirt and pulling it over his head; of the backs of Bucky’s legs hitting the edge of the mattress, sending them both falling onto the bed; of the slow, lazy kisses Bucky gave him. All of his dreams couldn’t do this justice; it was so much better. “I should.. light candles. I should .. make this romantic. Would that be stupid?” Steve stuttered.

“ _ No,  _ not stupid,” Bucky breathed, turning his head and placing a kiss on Steve’s bicep.

Steve would do  _ whatever _ , he’d blanket the room in rose petals if that's what Bucky wanted. But for now, he rummaged through a box to find a few of his candles. Tossing Steve a lighter out of his back pocket, Bucky grinned dopily and propped himself up on his elbows.

The sun was just starting to set outside the window, it would melt away quickly, but for now it cast the room in gold — molten and fire like Bucky felt. 

Crawling back up the bed, Steve ran thumbs over Bucky’s hips in awe, in adoration. He wanted to make sure Bucky was okay and taken care of and comfortable. Steve wanted to kiss every inch of him, take a long, long time memorizing the lines of his body. (Oh  _ fuck _ , did Bucky lead him into temptation.)

He couldn’t stand the way Bucky curled in on himself sometimes, like he was hiding. He couldn’t stand Bucky not liking parts of his body — the scarring on his shoulder or up his forearm, or the metal. So, Steve was determined to worship those parts of him. He’d make Bucky's body feel holy.

Steve pressed his lips to the freshly healed scars — kissed down his stomach to the waistband of his pants. Steve heard Bucky’s breath catch — his head fell back against the pillow. Undoing the button, Steve slipped Bucky’s jeans down his thighs and Bucky kicked them the rest of the way off.

After the serum, Steve had always been so uncomfortable when people would just  _ reach out  _ and touch his chest or  _ stare. _ He tried not to be rude — tried to step back or sink in on himself — but he didn’t  _ like _ it. He didn’t like the way they’d look at him like he was a  _ specimen _ instead of a person. When Bucky touched him —  _ admired _ him — that was  _ different.  _ Now, when Bucky skated his hands up Steve’s abdomen under his shirt; up his chest, around his shoulders — when he reached out and loved on Steve  _ right back —  _ Steve only wanted more. He wanted Bucky forever — when they were young, now, if they got a hundred more years.

The day was fading fast; these were the last few glimpses of it before they would be drowned in moonlight. 

Clearly exasperated that Steve wasn’t naked enough, Bucky hummed, hooked an arm around Steve’s waist and pushed him gently onto his back. Bucky felt like he was  _ made _ of electricity as he shifted their positions, settled, knees on either side of Steve’s hips, and rucked his shirt up.

Steve took the hint, sitting up. With Bucky still in his lap, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. Leaning up, Steve kissed him again, hand flat against Bucky’s lower back, urging him closer. In the twilight — the milky darkness of the room, Steve was glad he could see just fine. Bucky pushed him back down to the pillows, still straddling his hips. 

Wanting to  _ remember  _ this, Bucky ghosted his human fingertips down Steve’s forearm to his chest, tracing —  _ memorizing _ — the map of his veins. He halted his palm over Steve’s pounding heart. (The start and end of all things.) Steve reached up to run fingers through Bucky’s hair, resting the other hand on his thigh. The way Steve looked on that bed; the way candle light flickered over his beautiful chest; the way his eyes fluttered closed — it read like a Renaissance painting. Like he was some fallen Saint. At risk of fire and brimstone, Bucky leaned down and kissed the scars he’d given Steve  _ in his past life. _ (Though he knew nothing would be enough penance.)

Bucky had expected to start feeling  _ blank _ and  _ staticky  _ at some point, but he  _ wasn’t.  _ He was present and he felt so fucking  _ alive.  _ This felt like  _ them _ ; just them. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

Bucky ended up once more with his back against the pillows, allowing Steve to wedge a knee between his thighs. (He loved Steve looking down at him like this— feeling like he was protected.) Finally getting Steve’s pants off him, Bucky dragged blunt nails softly down his thighs 

“That’s my beautiful boy,” Steve said softly. Bucky blushed and hid his face, making a tiny, involuntary noise in the back of his throat. And with  _ that  _ reaction, Steve thought maybe he would call Bucky  _ beautiful  _ a million more times. (Steve wondered for a second if maybe Bucky had a thing about  _ praise.) _

“ _ Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,”  _ Steve smiled between kisses. “You’re perfect, Buck,” Steve would tell him every day as long as he was still breathing. And when he  _ sighed,  _ Steve was in love with the sound.

“Let me see those pretty eyes,” Steve coaxed. “I got you, I’ll take care of you.”

Bucky believed him, of course.  _ Nervous,  _ but only in the best way, this time he felt confident — like he could ease himself into it. “I trust ya.”

Though Steve did wish he could have had a little liquid courage in him at that point — wished his metabolism didn’t burn alcohol up — he did his best to swallow the nerves. Steve was scared he was going to do something wrong. (He was also really grateful the internet had been invented — otherwise he probably wouldn’t have had any idea what he was doing.)

Arching his back deliciously off the bed, writhing beneath him, Bucky whined, “Hurry  _ up,  _ Stevie.”

“Easy, baby,” Steve chuckled, kissing down to Bucky’s inner thigh, back up to his sternum for good measure. “Wanna take care of you.”

“ _ Oh,”  _ Bucky sighed, eyelids fluttering closed. “Steve,  _ my _ Steve. Mine.”

Shuddering, feeling  _ God _ ; like an avalanche down a mountain — feeling such an overwhelming sense of protection, Steve promised, “Yours.”

He didn’t take his eyes off Bucky’s, now that they were face to face again — Steve wanted to  _ see this.  _ He reached blindly. “Can I?” He hooked a thumb around the waistband of Bucky’s underwear.

“Yes. Anything, anything,” Bucky sighed, blinking up at him dreamily. 

Steve was overwhelmed,  _ honored  _ that Bucky trusted him enough to do this. But Steve wanted this to go slow, like it was 1940 and they were  _ young  _ and had nothing but time. He didn’t rush — worked him over until he was  _ ready;  _ until this wouldn’t hurt. The way Bucky’s mouth fell open; the way he made his body pliant and  _ malleable _ ; the way he looked sinful and angelic and dirty and  _ beautiful _ in Steve’s careful hands — had Steve nearly whimpering. 

When Steve  _ finally,  _ finally took him, Bucky felt his chest heave; felt his heart stutter. Tears pricked his eyes. He flinched — muscle memory was the damnedest thing. But this was so  _ different _ . 

“Oh, God, did I hurt you?” Steve fretted. 

The way Steve was looking at him — like he was about to call it off; like he was going to postpone this for another day— had Bucky reaching up to touch his face. Steve was perpetually ready to step back if he needed to; if Bucky was slipping — but Bucky was  _ present  _ and all he could feel was  _ warmth  _ and Steve handling him so  _ delicately. _

“No. No, Stevie they’re good tears,” Bucky promised — not in pain, not even close. “Good tears.” He was  _ smiling;  _ he was so, so happy. He felt  _ good.  _ It had been so long since anything like this had been  _ good. _ Steve was still supporting the majority of his weight until Bucky took a deep breath — deciding for certain that he was okay — and pulled Steve closer by the hips.

God, Bucky didn’t know how long he was going to last — not with Steve talking so slow and sweet in his ear as he found his rhythm. Selcouth; it was rare and wonderful — beautifully new and so, so intense. Nothing like anything he’d ever experienced before — nothing else could  _ touch  _ this.

His chest was flushed, Steve was gazing down at him, his pupils blown with what Bucky  _ felt  _ —  _ knew —  _ was love.

Breathing heavily, he hiked his knee up on Steve’s hip, needing him closer — as close as he could possibly get. The warmth — the  _ pull  _ in his stomach was  _ wonderful. _ Lips finding Steve’s collarbone, Bucky tucked his head against his shoulder. 

“You okay?” Steve's voice was low and rough but so sweet — always, always checking up on him. His best guy.

Nodding, he kissed Steve’s face, his jaw, his cheek, his perfect mouth. Bucky’s eyebrows knit, “ _ Good, Stevie. So good. Perfect.” _

Steve groaned. Though Bucky did have the presence of mind to tell him they had to be  _ quiet,  _ placing a steadying hand on Steve’s hip. Natasha and Sam were still downstairs. The string inside him was starting to wind and tighten, he couldn’t think anything else but  _ perfect _ ,  _ perfect _ ,  _ perfect _ . 

Pressing his forehead against Bucky’s, Steve leaned in and kissed him hard — stole the panting breaths from his mouth. Steve knew in this moment that Bucky had ruined him for anyone else. Nothing could surpass this. 

“ _ Fuck,”  _ Steve breathed, feeling like a live wire —  _ tingling _ up his spine — barely able to form coherent thoughts anymore. Tears started stinging his eyes at the  _ intensity  _ of everything.

Bucky let out a breathy laugh. Then, Steve hit where he needed him to, and Bucky was nearly lost to the world. Head lolling back, reaching behind him to grab at the pillows. At the way Steve called him ‘ _ baby’  _ in response, Bucky groaned low, it burned like whiskey down his throat. He repeated, “ _ please, please, please,”  _ though he didn’t know  _ exactly  _ what he was asking for.

There had to have been a psalm; a  _ hymn  _ for what they did there in that bed.

There had to be a sonnet for the way Bucky had never felt so  _ safe _ , so  _ loved;  _ for the way he tried to keep his eyes on Steve’s until he  _ couldn’t  _ anymore, until he was seeing stars; for the quiet exchanges of ‘ _ I love you’.  _ Bucky threaded fingers through Steve’s flaxen hair as he laid collapsed against his chest. Steve whispered his name over and over like a prayer as they came down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t be shy, leave a comment :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references of past child abuse, please read with caution

In a rare circumstance, Bucky woke up before Steve the following morning. It wasn’t even dawn yet, but the hazy almost-not-quite-May sunrise peaked through the linen curtains. Lying on his back with one arm tucked under his pillow, Bucky felt like embers burning out in a hearth— sleepy but still alight. All that mattered was the weight of Steve’s arm lazily slung across his waist, the soft breath on his shoulder. His head was devoid of any thought that didn’t pertain to Steve, and he was more than content with that. The pressure in his chest hadn’t eased up this much since probably before the war; he was weightless.

At least, he  _ was —  _ until he glanced over to see the way the fractured morning light looked when it met the expanse of Steve’s shoulders. Instead, Bucky got a glimpse of a trail of small bruises up his hip.

Steve was facing him, still asleep and blissfully unaware of the damage Bucky had caused. As if Bucky couldn’t hate himself more than he already did; as if he couldn’t feel any more guilt. He couldn’t seem to  _ stop  _ hurting Steve.

Bucky needed to go outside, he wanted some  _ air;  _ maybe a cigarette. He considered leaving a note on the pillow; he shouldn’t let Steve worry that he’d left — that he pulled another vanishing act. Bucky shifted, turning over like he was going to get out of the bed. If Steve hadn’t been still so entwined in his limbs, Bucky probably could have slipped out without his notice.

At the shift in the mattress, Steve’s arm tightened around his waist. “Where’re ya goin’?” Not understanding, Steve blinked his bleary eyes. Had Bucky changed his mind about him? Did he wish they’d never done this? 

Bucky huffed out a pained sigh, placing fingertips along the damaged skin — lining them up with the marks they’d made hours before. (Bucky thought the bruises on him looked like  _ blasphemy _ .)

Tiny purpley half- moons blossomed on his right hip and side from Bucky’s metal hand, but truthfully, Steve hadn’t even noticed until Bucky had pointed it out. Not even when he’d cleaned them both up the night before. They were so small, and there were only a handful of them; they were healing already — they were nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky snatched his hand back and shook his head. “I —”

Leaning up on his elbow, Steve caught his human arm— loosely, not forcibly. “Hey, hey. It’s okay, doll. I’ll be good as new in a couple of hours. Matter of fact, you could even be rougher with me, I wouldn’t mind,” Steve winked, but the mirth died in his eyes when he saw the look in Bucky's.

“How many times have I hurt ya without meaning to? What kinda man does that make me?” Bucky’s voice was gravelly — whether from sleep or emotion, Steve wasn’t sure. Turning his head, Bucky averted his eyes like this hurt too bad to face. 

Maybe he  _ was  _ overreacting. The bruises were inconsequential, but it wasn’t  _ really _ just the bruises that were upsetting him; he was lost and  _ sad _ that he couldn’t seem to do anything right. Suddenly embarrassed and very aware of the fact that he was naked apart from the sheets around him.

“Dont. Don’t do that to yourself. I don’t regret anything Buck. It was perfect,” Steve reeled him back in, pulled him to his chest and Bucky sighed against his shoulder. (Steve thought his  _ one  _ regret was letting their youth pass like they had unlimited time — hiding away and denying everything he’d ever felt for fear of making it real until it was too late. The world’s leading authority on waiting too long.) “I hope.. I hope you feel good about what happened, too.”

Bucky snorted a laugh, but said more seriously, “Yeah. S’ good. It was really good, Stevie.” Then he joked— in the way he was  _ always  _ joking to push down the guilt, “I’m considering that as my belated birthday present.”

“You were  _ gone _ , Buck. I did call,” Steve laughed, though there was a twinge in his heart. It made him sad how many birthdays Bucky must have spent alone or in pain. How many March 10th’s had passed in Steve’s periphery with him still believing all that existed of Bucky were sepia toned photographs that hurt to look at. (Steve was determined to make next year’s better, if the fates allowed.)

“I know, baby, I’m kidding,” Bucky smiled, winked, kissed the freckle on his cheek, the two near his jugular. Steve’s hand came up to brush fingers through Bucky's hair.

“Think we still got it, for, ya know, being a hundred and all,” Steve grinned. In response, Bucky laughed a  _ real _ laugh — one that shook his shoulders and had tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

There was some ethereal, otherworldly haze still over them; like they weren’t in the real world — they only existed with each other. The universe had found its balance and so had their souls. When Bucky shut his eyes and brought their entwined hands to his lips to kiss Steve’s knuckles, Steve couldn’t have been any happier.

Stretching, Bucky sighed, smiling that lazy feline smile that Steve was so taken with.  _ God _ , did Steve feel like he needed to  _ pinch  _ himself. Bucky Barnes was in his bed. Bucky Barnes loved him back. If Steve could have sat his younger self down and told him that it could be like  _ this.. _

Bucky was  _ everything _ — was his resting heart rate. Bucky was the first crack in a frozen lake. He was thunder; the steady pull of the tide; the early dawn after a falling snow. He was Steve’s equilibrium. 

Bucky would be the only thing written in his epitaph. 

(Steve made a noise of complaint in the back of his throat when Bucky pulled on shorts and went to get a shower, but he let him go nonetheless.)

In the mirror, Bucky was surprised to see so much of his old self. If he kept the rest of the mirror foggy and only rubbed away enough condensation to see his face, he felt like  _ him.  _ (Though, he did want a haircut.) Things weren’t so dark, really, if he thought about it. 

*

“You want a smoke?” Bucky murmured, still shirtless, hair still damp. Steve was dressing after his own shower. The sun had just risen properly and he wanted to sit out in the fresh air. Steve really only still smoked if Bucky was offering, but he never turned him down. 

“Come sit on the roof with me, Stevie,” Bucky suggested. Not that he needed much convincing — Steve would have gone anywhere with him. Though, Bucky was halfway to the window before Steve stopped him. “Wait, it’s chilly this morning. Put this on.”

And it  _ was  _ a bit nippy. He  _ did  _ want Bucky to be warm enough, but this was less about Steve thinking a supersoldier could catch a  _ cold  _ and more about wanting Bucky bundled up in  _ his _ hoodie — one that was too big on him. The sleeves came down over his hands; the fabric, soft and blue, was darker than his eyes. Steve thought it was his favorite color on him, though admittedly, he liked the way any of his clothes looked on Bucky. 

Kissing the side of Steve’s head as a thank you, Bucky slid open the window. The rough shingles cut into his palm as he climbed over the ledge, but he didn’t mind it. He noticed the way Steve’s hand came out to steady him — as if he hadn’t been climbing on rooftops for the better part of 70 years; as if he wasn’t a highly trained assassin — just in case he lost his balance. It caused a flutter in his chest. 

Steve climbed out carefully after him. Sitting next to him, Steve tucked him against his side and draped an arm around his shoulders. Bucky lit his cigarette, then lit Steve's for him. The way Steve's thick eyelashes fluttered, dark crescents against his cheek in the light of the flame as he inhaled deeply had Bucky holding his breath.

Birds sang happily. It was a nice morning, even though the sun was muted by a blanket of clouds. The breeze felt good. Looking at his hands, at the way the fabric swallowed his frame, Bucky sighed contentedly. 

“S’ pretty here,” Bucky noted. It was nice; it was quiet and suburban. It reminded him of when he was a kid in Indiana before he moved to New York. A field of undeveloped land stretched out before them in the back of the house. Wildflowers were blooming there, and Bucky made a note to pick some for Steve before they went inside. Yeah, maybe it was sappy and  _ ridiculous,  _ but he was happy.

Bucky didn’t know how to describe the way the anxious buzz — the one telling him to keep away from things that might hurt him— eased when Steve was there.

He was even starting to like this house. It was tucked enough away from prying eyes; from the noise of the city. It made him think about what the future could be like. (They needed to get on unpacking the last few boxes. Bucky knew that Steve still felt like this was a liminal space — like they were staying still while the seasons changed too quickly. Steve did that— he wandered around like he was never quite anchored anywhere; like he could never find a safe harbor; like he was never home enough to  _ know  _ it was home.) 

If the heavy, constant threats of danger would ever release them; if the sword of Damocles wasn’t hanging over their heads, maybe he’d be more comfortable settling down. Though, Bucky felt safe enough, all things considered. He was relieved no one had come knocking so far.

Steve blew smoke out of the side of his mouth and nodded in agreement, a smile in his eyes. “It is pretty. Guess I haven’t looked at it like I should,” In Steve’s defense, he supposed he’d been too preoccupied with  _ prettier _ things to look around.

Glancing up at him, Bucky watched him bring the cigarette back to his lips; watched his cheeks hollow as he inhaled, clean shaven and skin still soft and warm from his shower. The black long sleeved t-shirt he was wearing served to make the impossible blues in his eyes  _ impossibly bluer.  _ And  _ God,  _ Bucky hoped it wasn’t too unsavory to be thinking about how he’d loved Steve  _ first.  _ (Loved him  _ better. _ ) Now that he knew it could be  _ that good,  _ Bucky didn’t know how he was supposed to stop himself from wanting it all the time.

Steve was incandescent; Bucky wanted to sink into his sunlight.

“Stevie?” Bucky looked at the cigarette between his fingers, running his thumb over the filter. 

“Yes, baby?” Steve answered, arm still slung around his shoulders. 

“Do ya think we’ll get old?” 

Steve was caught off guard — Bucky could tell by the way his breath halted in his chest for a moment. Always assuming something would take him out  _ sooner  _ rather than  _ later,  _ Steve had never let himself consider getting to live to  _ old age _ . He couldn’t bring himself to make goals for the future being so unsure there was one. Thinking about it, weighing the likelihood — the life expectancy of their line of work — Steve didn’t  _ know _ . But God, all he wanted in the world was  _ this  _ for as long as he could have it.

“ _ Only together.”  _ Steve pulled Bucky closer. He was a shit liar, but this wasn’t a lie — it was the only way he could picture it. He couldn’t promise much of anything, but he could promise that.  _ Needing  _ each other had always been their best chance of survival. (And he wouldn’t want forever with anyone else.)

“I think there’s a quote,” Steve continued, “something like  _ ‘the first hundred years are the hardest _ .’ Guess that means it’s smooth sailing from here on.” He joked, allowing himself to indulge a fantasy a little while longer. He could see it now — a life they’d built for themselves; a home with no fear, no loud anger; maybe even a family. He could picture himself and Bucky with graying hair and laughter lines somewhere far away from danger. 

Nodding a quiet agreement, Bucky didn’t even respond with his usual cynicism because he was  _ happy.  _ And he loved seeing Steve like this, too — like there wasn’t the normal tinge of sadness in his eyes. Bucky put out his cigarette and picked up Steve’s hand. “Don’t think I actually wanna be a hundred yet,” he sighed. “How old are you, if you were countin’?”

Steve pursed his lips, considering. “Um, 32. Give or take.”

“Okay,” Bucky smiled. “Then I’ll be 33. Give or take.”

Turning Steve's palm over, Bucky traced the freckles on his wrist with his thumb while they sat together.

Bucky had been so young when he’d picked up this habit. ( Not  _ smoking.  _ It wasn’t the cigarettes he was addicted to, it was touching Steve’s skin in the most innocent of ways.) 

_ Bucky thought about all the times Steve’s Ma would be working overnights at the TB ward. Bravefaced, Steve would never  _ **_tell_ ** _ anyone that it was hard being alone all the time; that it was hard looking out for himself. Not needing an explanation, Bucky came over most nights anyway, even though his parents didn’t want him walking through the rough part of town. (Even though they thought it was unnatural how much time he spent with Steve — how he should get some other friends.) He would lie because he knew his father would beat his ass upon finding out where Bucky had been all night, leaving Bucky to hide the bruises from Steve and Miss Sarah. Though, the punishment never dissuaded him from spending time at the Rogers’. _

_ Bucky was always doing that — finding ways to be close to Steve. _

_ Once, when Bucky was maybe 13, he’d crawled into Steve’s sickbed, having heard his breathing stall and stutter one too many times. Laying on his side with his elbow under his head, listening to Steve’s raspy breath, Bucky was overcome with the urge to soothe him; to comfort him. Steve had been awake beside him, but quiet — quilt kicked to the bottom of the bed even in the middle of winter because his tiny body was sweating out a fever. When Bucky touched him, he was burning up. Against Steve’s stomach, where his undershirt was bunched up around his prominent ribs. Bucky drew pictures; elaborate constellations with the gentle brush of fingertips. _

_ “Tickles,” Steve whispered, licking his chapped bottom lip; forget-me-not blue eyes fluttering open. So, of course Bucky kept doing it. Wind howling mournfully at the windows, the panel rattled — an abrasive promise of how bad the winter would be. _

_ When Steve fixed his gaze on him, Bucky had this weird, hot feeling in the back of his head. He’d never seen Steve as fragile. Never — Steve was the strongest person that Bucky had ever known. Moments like these, however, served as a cold, spiteful reminder that Steve’s chronic illnesses were actually serious. And a person — such a  _ **_small_ ** _ person could only have so much fight in them, right? It scared him. That’s how fast it could happen — there one second and gone the next.  _

_ Nearly jumping out of his skin when Miss Sarah came in — home from her late shift; Bucky had lost track of time — he snatched his hand back. Tensing, Bucky was frozen like he’d done something wrong. Steve was too weak to lift his head to look at her, but he did murmur a hoarse ‘hey, Ma,’.  _

_ “You boys alright?” Her answering smile was soft and heartening — a smile just like Steve’s.  _

_ “Yes, ma’am,” Bucky said, sitting up and glancing over at Steve, just to double check — just in case something had happened in the few seconds he’d let Steve out of his line of sight.  _

_ “Steven, I’ll go and get your tea ready. Ya know the doctor says it’s —,”  _

_ “That’s okay, Ma. Bucky already did. You go on to sleep,” Steve said softly.  _

_ Miss Sarah didn’t look even a little surprised; just appreciative. “Thank you, James.” _

_ It wasn’t any trouble, of course Bucky would help when he could. Miss Sarah already did _ **_so much_ ** _.  _

_ When they were a bit older, Steve started feeling more self-conscious about his slight frame — kids at school were cold-hearted. Bucky's actions took on a more profound meaning. It was almost as if he was trying to trace the way he felt into Steve’s skin. Maybe Bucky could prove to Steve that he was just fine the way he was — could give Steve back any of his self confidence. Gently connecting the freckles on Steve’s cheek with invisible lines, all the way down to his shoulders, to his bony chest, Bucky hoped it conveyed all the admiration he couldn’t give voice to. _

_ Over time, Miss Sarah had picked up on his habit. He and Steve would be doing something simple, like homework at Steve’s little kitchen table, and Bucky would absentmindedly brush a pinkie across his wrist. It became second nature, though never outside the refuge of Steve’s apartment — not ever somewhere that could get them hurt. People talked enough as it was, and he wouldn’t make Steve more vulnerable. _

_ Once, when he was 16 and Steve was 15, Bucky was spending the night. It was a school night, but Bucky was increasingly dreading any time spent at home with his parents. Miss Sarah had offered him sanctuary. (They didn’t have much, but they’d take him in.) It was hard on Bucky — never wanting to be home; never quite feeling welcome in a space that was supposed to be  _ **_his_ ** _. (But he supposed he carved out a new one just fine on his own.)  _

_ It still hurt, though, and it brought him to tears sometimes in the middle of the night when Steve was long since asleep. He was so young and the world was so heavy. That evening, in particular, was worse than a lot of others.  _

_ Fretful, Bucky couldn’t sleep. So, he crept into the kitchen, closing the door quietly behind him as not to wake Steve. He needed to sit somewhere alone because there was chaos in his head, a cataclysm in his chest — and he couldn’t stop the way he was feeling any more than he could have stopped his own heart.  _

_ He wasn’t expecting Miss Sarah to be folding freshly washed sheets, but really it made sense that she’d be awake. It wasn’t all that late, and she tended to keep herself busy. Bucky didn’t say anything — just came over to the table to help her. She reached out to squeeze his forearm briefly as a ‘thank you.’  _

_ Even in the dim light, surely she had to have known Bucky was crying — surely she could see it in his red rimmed eyes as plain as she could see the admiration on his face whenever he was around Steve. Bucky didn’t want to talk about it, but the apartment was small and there was nowhere to hide from her. Miss Sarah had a talent for seeing directly through people to their soul. _

_ And Bucky didn’t want to burden her with his horrible day. He’d gotten shouted at by his father only a few hours before, but he didn’t want to bring that here. Maybe Bucky  _ **_was_ ** _ queer like his family thought he was. Maybe he’d earned their resentment. He didn’t know. Briefly, subtly, Bucky rubbed the back of his hand against his stinging eyes, trying to mask his movements by picking up another blanket to fold.  _

_ “You be good to my boy, now, James.” _

_ She  _ **_knew_ ** _.  _

_ Ice water in his veins, Bucky looked up, scared and wide-eyed. The fabric slipped out of his hands and back onto the table. He was so young at the time; so lost thinking he was going to be reprimanded. If Miss Sarah disowned him, too — well then he didn’t know what he was going to do; where he’d find parental support. _

_ Denial on his numb lips, Bucky shook his head, ready to say ‘no, I’m sorry, it’s nothing like that. Steve’s not  _ **_like_ ** _ that’. He was overcome with the urge to protect Steve, protect him, protect him. He couldn’t breathe for a few seconds, studying Miss Sarah’s face, trying to interpret which way this was going to go out of  _ **_survival_ ** _ instinct. If he needed to bolt, he wasn’t sure he had anywhere else to run to. _

_ If he had been at home, if it wasn’t so dark outside, he might have walked to the hidden alcove he’d discovered by the lake. Bucky liked to be alone there. But Miss Sarah just looked at him from the other side of the table with so much genuine kindness on her face — like light radiated from within. So Bucky bit his wobbling bottom lip, nodded and replied, “yes, ma’am.”  _

_ “No, sweetheart, oh, mo stóirín, don’t ya cry, now. It’s okay,” Miss Sarah promised. At the sob that broke involuntary from his lungs, she pulled Bucky into her arms and just held him, rocking him gently while he cried.  _

“ _ Steven’s so lucky tae have ya, James,” she tucked a graying strand of hair behind her ear and placed her hands firmly on Bucky's shoulders.  _

_ She could see the depth of his heart in the way Bucky never treated Steve like he was  _ **_fragile_ ** _ — took him on the cyclone and playfully shook his shoulders. She could see it in the way Bucky still handled him with so much care — looked over at Steve to make sure he’d made it across the street safely; looked over after a joke to see if Steve was laughing. Checking up on Steve was second nature — they were  _ **_always_ ** _ checking up on each other.  _

_ All of that aside, Bucky was sure Steve didn’t feel the same. (But he did know that Steve was the best thing to ever happen to him.) _

_ He didn’t want to correct her; he didn’t have the heart to tell her that even if — and he wasn’t sure that was the case — if Steve happened to be queer too, he could do so much better than  _ **_Bucky._ ** _ So, he didn’t say anything at all. _

_ Bucky just let himself be comforted for a few fleeting, wonderful moments. _

_ “You’re a good boy,” Miss Sarah cooed, probably having had some inclination that Bucky wasn’t told so frequently — she was as observant as she was empathetic. She’d mothered him more than his own mother. _

_ Taking Bucky's face in her warm, calloused hands and wiping a few stray tears, she insisted, “I only mention it because I want ya tae know both of ya will always be safe here. Understand me? This is your home.” Her eyes were hearthfire and promise, the same intensity he sometimes glimpsed in Steve’s.  _

_ Because the world was so cruel, but Sarah Rogers loved her son so much. And she loved Bucky like he was her own from the first time Steve had brought him over after school to play all those years ago. More than anything, she wanted the two of them to be happy. _

_ And Bucky didn’t even admit his feelings to himself until later that same year, afraid of the kind of power the beast would hold if he gave it a name — afraid it would grow teeth and claws and hurt them both.  _

_ Coming to terms with that, he took solace in the fact that Sarah Rogers knew exactly who he was, and she loved him anyway.  _

_ Miss Sarah’s unwavering acceptance was the first time Bucky hadn’t seen himself as some sort of anathema; like he wasn’t wrong or dirty. It was the only time he’d ever know unconditional maternal love. Looking back, Bucky thought that was one of his favorite memories of her. _

Steve slipped his arm from Bucky's shoulder to around his waist. Fingertips under the hem of his hoodie, he rubbed tiny circles against his hip. “Buck?” Steve had said his name a few times, becoming more disconcerted when he didn’t get an answer.

“Sorry, Stevie. Just thinkin’,” Bucky blinked up at him. He wondered about what was going on behind those eyes.

“About good things?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky smiled and squeezed his knee. It was just a tiny movement, but it held all the meaning of,  _ ‘I’m here, we’re okay.’ _

As they made their way inside through the back door, having taken a brief detour through the field, Steve suggested they have some breakfast.

Bucky's appetite was  _ decent,  _ though still a subject of Steve’s concern. Aware the refeeding process in Wakanda had been difficult, Steve still faltered sometimes, wondering if Bucky's eating habits were less about not  _ feeling hunger _ and more about  _ punishing _ himself. Steve had been there a few times during the operose process of reintroducing Bucky to  _ real _ food after years of an NG tube; after struggling in Romania — when Bucky had been crying because it was so uncomfortable and frustrating and  _ hard _ . There was nothing about Bucky’s recovery that didn’t break Steve’s heart.

“You’re chipper this morning,” Nat commented, one hand flipping French toast in a pan on the stove, the other on her hip. As Steve was looking through cabinets to find a vase for the bouquet of wildflowers — when there wasn’t one, he made do with a pitcher — he caught a smirk and a raised eyebrow from Natasha.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably where he was standing, frozen in the middle of the kitchen feeling exposed and vulnerable; resenting how easily Natasha looked right through him like she knew everything.

“What?” Bucky questioned lightly, no vitriol in his tone.

“Nothing, nothing. Just — it’s really good to see you so happy,” she said over her shoulder. 

“You goin’ soft on me, Romanoff?” Steve joked, opening the news app on his iPad. She shot him another knowing look, and he was glad some of her view was blocked by the foliage in front of him. It hid the dopey smile on his face.

“Soft? Oh, not me. Never. I’m bloodthirsty. Could you set the table?”

Steve obliged, and Bucky got out the orange juice and syrup from the refrigerator. When Sam came inside after his run, seeming to feel the difference in energy, he glanced between Steve and Bucky, then back at Natasha with raised eyebrows.

“Why’s Barnes smiling like that? It’s unsettling,” Sam complained. Bucky shot him a middle finger, but it was good natured. 

“Sit. We’re having a family breakfast,” Natasha responded.

Later that afternoon, Steve was even in a good enough mood to finish unpacking the last of his moving boxes. With Bucky’s help, he got everything organized and into its proper place. It cleared his head and brought a lot of light into their room. (And Bucky  _ was  _ helping — Steve couldn’t blame him if every so often he got distracted by all the knickknacks and photographs that felt like  _ home.) _

*

Following a string of really  _ good _ days, Bucky decided he was ready to sit in on the team meetings in the war room. He was  _ fine.  _ He could  _ handle it _ . (He wasn’t spineless.)

Steve assured him that no one would think any differently of him if he needed to step out — if at any point he decided he  _ didn’t want to be part of this.  _ Promising to do so if it was too much, Bucky felt like he was holding metaphorical crossed fingers behind his back. The truth was, if this cost him some stability, he didn’t care.

Bucky felt bad enough about how much he’d missed, but he was able to catch up quickly. Sitting with the rest of the team, reading through files with one heel propped up on the empty chair next to him, it was almost like he’d been there the whole time.

Pushpins indicating potential locations of interest were stuck into a map. The bulletin board displayed months of research, leads, names crossed off lists. Some of Bucky’s kills were reflected in the timeline, and he couldn’t put a name to the feeling he got when he thought of Steve keeping quiet tabs on him like that— looking out for him even from a distance. (But it was a  _ nice  _ feeling.)

Steve was tapping the end of a pen on a stack of papers anxiously when Sam announced that he’d put some pieces together. The reason, as it turned out, that Sam had called the meeting, was a recurring sequence of numbers. What had originally looked like a coincidence was starting to look like  _ coordinates. _

So Natasha ran them through some databases, and sure enough, there had, at one point, been a building in that location. A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “It doesn’t look like anything exists there  _ now _ . Burned down in the 80’s,” she clarified, turning her laptop screen for everyone to get a look. 

Bucky sat up straighter in his chair, dropping his foot back to the ground heavily. Staring at the images on the screen, Bucky stated, “I’ve been there.” And he knew it wasn’t before the 80’s. His visit had been a lot more recent. 

“This picture,” Sam slid it onto the table. “The one from Bucky's bag. It looks awfully familiar,” Sam wasn’t wrong. The exterior of the compound looked identical to the images from  _ before  _ the alleged fire.

“The date on that picture is 2013,” Steve said. “But if you look at the satellite images.. there’s nothing.” He knew better than to discount it — he knew just because you couldn’t  _ see  _ something, didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

“So I guess the question is if there’s something at that location, why don’t they want it to be seen?” Sam inquired, pushing another pin into their map.

A ghost story looking for a ghost building; a building faking its own death — Bucky could have laughed at the way this all sounded. God, maybe he  _ was  _ losing it. Maybe he wasn’t ready.

“Do you think it’s a setup?” Steve asked, still acutely aware of the way things had gone last time.

“Always possible,” Sam replied, “I think we need to operate under the assumption that it is.”

Natasha was still typing furiously, keyboard clicking. “Within a hundred mile radius of these coordinates, things get weird, fellas. Livestock going missing, illnesses, deaths. For the past few decades, there’s been contaminated drinking water, the crops won’t grow. I don’t know if that’s the  _ goal  _ or a side effect. Either way.. they’ve been  _ poisoning  _ civilians. There’s even cryptid hunting blogs that claim Bigfoot lives in the surrounding woods because of all the unexplained disappearances and deaths.”

After a beat of silence, she continued, leaning her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand. “I’d wager it’s Hydra. I don’t much believe in Bigfoot.”

“It needs to be destroyed,” Bucky didn’t look up from the table, but Steve could feel the tension on him. 

“Not just destroyed — no one  _ took us seriously.  _ No one wanted to get involved. We need to make this so loud they can’t look away. Everything comes out in the open,” Natasha insisted.

“Okay. So now what? We’d be stupid to think we can go in and take it all down in one swoop. This guy was a couple of cheap shots away from biting it,” Sam sat back down in his chair and inclined his head toward Bucky.

Bucky resented that, however true it was. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He knew Hydra would exploit the weaknesses in his conditioning any way they knew how, if they were expecting him.

“Wilson’s right. If we pull the pin, we need to be ready for the fallout. I  _ might  _ have some ideas,” Nat almost smiled, one foot up on the table. “After Tony cut ties — told us to get our  _ house in order —  _ I made some friends in low places. I’ll call around and see what I can do.”

Bucky was running his hands over and over his thighs, though his expression was stone. (It was one of the self soothing behaviors Steve had seen in him, one that said things were hitting a little too close to where it hurt, but that he would steel himself and get through it.

It was bad. He hadn’t expected  _ less.  _ And they were going to be implicated, but letting this go was being complicit in Hydra’s crimes and that didn’t sit well on his conscience either — it sat  _ worse _ than taking karma into his own hands. 

“What if the wrong people get wind of what we’re looking into?” Sam asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. “We let them fuck around and find out?”

Bucky wasn’t having that. They should err on the side of caution. “Steve, they tried to  _ blow you and Nat up,  _ if you recall. I ain’t takin’ chances. We need a contingency plan that ain’t just ‘ _ play defense’.” _

Steve deliberated over their options. A lot was weighted in the balance, but aside from Natasha’s contacts, they really had nothing yet. It was a Hail Mary — it was their one chance. If they missed this, well, he didn’t know if he could consider the consequences. They just needed more time.

At least now they had something to go on. More progress had been made over the span of a night than in  _ weeks _ .

*

After the meeting, Steve hung back at the table while everyone else continued their night without him. Sam looked at him skeptically, but Steve promised he was fine; that he was just going to look over some information again. He told Bucky not to wait up — to go on to sleep. 

Steve  _ was _ looking into information — that wasn’t a lie. But he wasn’t really  _ seeing  _ anything; he was standing in front of the bulletin board staring blankly. 

“You look miles away,” Bucky commented, not having listened to Steve’s suggestion. He’d only been upstairs for about 15 minutes before deciding that was too long. (He didn’t really  _ want  _ to go to sleep without Steve.)

Coming up behind Steve, he wrapped his arms around his middle and hooked his chin over Steve’s shoulder. Bucky knew something was up and he wasn’t going to let Steve hide it — not from him.

“Fighting for Hydra under the guise of Shield for years, lettin’ you fall — lettin’ all this happen to you. I just..” Steve trailed off, but Bucky nodded against his shoulder, encouraging him to go on. Steve sighed and stroked his thumb over Bucky's arm around his waist. “I don’t fear hell anymore Buck. There are worse things than dyin’.” Not even above a whisper, Steve spoke to the bulletin board — it was easier.

God, the weight of all his past mistakes crushed him — it was fucking  _ depressing _ . Steve pushed it down well, but he was so fucking  _ angry _ sometimes; he was so angry at the world it  _ choked _ him.

Bucky left an understanding kiss against the back of his neck and Steve remembered waking up from the ice. Trying to deep six the grief along with his plane didn’t keep it buried. He’d awoken and the pain over losing Bucky hit anew — raked him with its claws. In his timeline he was still so young; he was just 25. In his timeline it had only been 3 days since Bucky fell — only just before Bucky's birthday. It was all still so heartbreaking and fresh and he had to grieve all over again. And then he had to mourn  _ himself _ — the man he had been; some requiem for his departed past. 

And later, before he knew Bucky was alive, Steve would meet him in his dreams and try desperately to  _ stay  _ there for a while. Each morning, consciousness would find him with a sadness deep enough to permeate his bones. Every memory was so tangible that waking up was the first step in the grieving process. He felt like he couldn’t keep his head above water. He wanted to — he told himself he  _ would _ . Steve was always honest — though not so much with  _ himself. _

Finding out he died for nothing; finding out about project fucking paperclip — the  _ betrayal _ Steve felt ran deep. He figured he might very well have become an enemy of the state sooner if he had stuck around to see this; if Steve had seen them turn him into the poster boy for a cause he wasn’t even sure he could support.

But most aggressively of all, he  _ fucking missed _ Bucky. Everyone Steve knew was long gone — his friends, the Commandos, Bucky's sisters. Peggy didn’t have much time left, either. He was alone in a world that only had a skewed idea of  _ who he used to be  _ — the half truths of textbooks and documentaries and news articles. Plasticine — he had been made into something alien and brightly-colored and  _ fake. _

He was so  _ young,  _ when he’d gone into the ice. And it fucking hurt. It hurt like waking up as a ghost, absent from his body — like waking up lost at sea. He was intangible; he was nothing; he was empty — if anyone had reached out and touched him, their hand would have gone right through his chest.

Luckily no one ever did — at least before Natasha and Sam.

Steve wasn’t supposed to be here, so he had gone to the gym and let a punching bag  _ have it _ until his hands were bleeding. And whenever he broke one, he’d drag up another to take its place but he  _ wouldn’t stop.  _ Like a shark, he had to keep moving, becoming stagnant was death. The past handful of years had aged him significantly— had beaten him down. He felt how much he’d changed; how he wasn’t as soft or naive or  _ hopeful. _ Sometimes he  _ felt  _ every one of his almost 100 years, sometimes he was  _ barely _ in his 30’s and so fucking scared. 

All this time he’d been stuck in a losing fight because he’d take a bullet for Bucky even when he was the person behind the trigger. And Steve could blame the universe, blame  _ God  _ all he wanted, but the truth of the matter was that he had orchestrated his own tragedy. It felt like the way Steve had never had any plans to bring his plane down safely — how he’d let his shield fall into the Potomac because he  _ never had any plans _ to get off that helicarrier. He just.. never had any plans.

Steve’s chest was tight, he knew he was letting himself spiral when Bucky's palm came to rest over his heart. 

“Sugar, look at me,” Bucky said, trying gently to get him to turn around, voice silvery and low like moonlight.

When Steve finally faced him, his shoulders hunched, allowing Bucky to press him to his chest. He’d already told himself he wasn’t going to cry, but the way Bucky was holding him, so soft and sweet — the way Bucky’s heart felt against him — nearly crumbled his cool façade. If he looked at Bucky in the eyes there was no way Bucky wouldn’t see everything Steve had ever thought. 

“Stevie,” Bucky breathed, rubbing his back. “Please.” Bucky knew the feeling. He wanted to tell him they’d get through it. Just one last mission and they’d retire and fuck off to a beach somewhere no one would find them. It sounded hollow and honeyed and fictitious. He couldn’t tell Steve there was an  _ after.  _ He’d made that mistake before. Steve finally pulled back to look at him with misty eyes. Taking Steve’s face in both hands, Bucky brushed his thumbs against his cheeks.

“I know how much you blame yourself. But that was never your fault — me falling.  _ I  _ picked up that shield. I knew the risk when I followed you. That’s how I woulda wanted to go — protectin’ you,” It was Bucky’s own doing; he’d always taken that responsibility. “And Hydra — they were too invested in me, Stevie. If not then, they woulda found me somewhere.” 

(Bucky had flown too close to the sun and wound up with burns. But even with scarred skin he’d look back up into its light like it was his favorite thing in the world— he would revel in the warmth.) 

“As for the rest of the world — you can’t fix it all,” Bucky gripped his shoulders. “But you did a pretty damn good job, given the circumstances,” his tone was light, but he meant it with all the weight it could carry. 

Standing up straighter, Steve winced and shook his head but Bucky slid his hands from his shoulders down to his biceps and looked resolutely into his tired eyes. “You’re the most selfless person I’ve ever met. You’ve done so  _ much. _ ”

Brow furrowing, Steve slipped his arms around Bucky’s waist to hold him just a little while longer. The silence stretched on for too long to interrupt it, so instead Bucky pressed his lips to Steve’s forehead and sat him back down at the table. Retrieving a pencil and some scrap paper, Bucky remembered the way drawing used to help Steve calm down when he got upset. 

Steve’s heart  _ swelled _ . Bucky was so good at that; at making him feel understood, even when he couldn’t verbalize what was wrong; at knowing when he needed to redirect his energy. He didn’t know how he could deserve Bucky sitting up half the night with him while he drew stupid doodles. Steve didn’t  _ know _ what he’d done to deserve it, but once he figured it out he swore he’d do it a thousand more times.

*

Not that Bucky would admit it to anyone, but being part of a mission again was starting to resurface some of his  _ symptoms.  _ He was on edge again— enough to snap at Steve and start a few stupid arguments over the next few days. Once, he’d even gone so far as to swear he was sleeping on the couch, though within the hour he was back upstairs telling Steve to  _ scoot over. _

(When Steve inquired as to whether they were still fighting, Bucky replied  _ ‘shut up, punk, I got lonely,’ _ eyes already closed and head tucked under Steve’s chin.)

Bucky felt stupid for his outbursts. If he could survive the trauma, he could survive the recovery, right? Surely, he could — given the strategies to argue with his depression. But the cold was everywhere — it was in his bones. He’d been having intrusive thoughts — that’s what Sam had called them. Bucky knew that it wasn’t him; it was a side effect of the pain he’d endured. Not the soldier, but not him either — it  _ wasn’t him. _

(It wasn’t him when he thought of the knives in the kitchen and what he could do with them. It wasn’t  _ him _ because he  _ knew  _ better and he didn’t  _ want  _ to be that way. He was healing — he’d been so much better, so  _ why  _ was he  _ like  _ this?)

But old wounds could still open and bleed. And Bucky  _ felt  _ the sting to prove it sitting on the roof alone outside the bedroom window. He’d needed some air; everyone else was still downstairs, but the living room was far too fucking claustrophobic. So he had kissed Steve's knuckles, un-entwining their hands. Saying he’d be outside for a little while, Bucky had told him not to worry — promised he was fine.

The way Steve stared after him had Bucky questioning what his own expression must look like. On the roof, pulling his knees up to his chest, Bucky leaned his head against the side of the house with a thump. He looked out over the darkened fields. Farther beyond that in the distance, he could see car lights passing on the freeway. He wondered if those people were happy — if they were going home to their families; what life was like for them. 

(Bucky wondered when he’d started fearing the darkness again.) 

His thoughts were poison. Wringing his hands, he hated how much he  _ remembered.  _

_ Recalling looking down at the unconscious body he’d dragged out of the Potomac, Bucky felt sluggish, disoriented like waking up from a dream. Why didn’t he fight back? He’d made sure the man was still breathing, having choked water out of his lungs. Standing over him, Bucky knew he couldn’t stay. The hardest thing he’d ever have to do was walk away from the broken man on the shore. He didn’t know what was going to happen now — seeing as he was supposed to be decommissioned after this. If project Insight had worked, he’d be unnecessary, redundant, replaced. He’d be killed; he was expendable. (Bucky wasn’t all that opposed to the idea. Maybe he’d finally get some fucking rest.) _

_ When he’d read about Captain America in the museum, the realization finally hit and it had curb stomped him. Oh God — Steve. He was  _ **_Bucky_ ** _ , and that was  _ **_Steve_ ** _. It hurt and Steve was  _ **_gone_ ** _ and Bucky didn’t know if he was even still alive. What had he done? It was too late.  _

_ So discordant when he’d seen his life written out on museum walls, Bucky couldn’t understand how this man could possibly be him. This was just a stranger with his face. But under it all, there was some uncomfortable nagging recollection he couldn’t place. He needed to  _ **_go_ ** _ , he needed to get out of there. _

_ ‘You’ve known me your whole life,’ Steve had said. Bucky’s heart was breaking — what had he  _ **_done_ ** _? He would have prayed for relief if he had any words; instead he stood with his mouth open and tears obscuring his vision.  _

_ So, he had fled — dragging with him the devastating assumption he’d killed Steve; that Steve couldn’t have possibly survived. Even hidden in Romania, Bucky couldn’t forget the banks of that God forsaken river. With Steve as a constant presence in his subconscious — he tried to save him and  _ **_couldn’t_ ** _ , but Bucky didn’t know why that hurt so badly. His dreams were either Steve’s kind eyes or the horror and violence of his captivity, and Bucky didn’t know which ones were worse to wake up from. Feeling like he was missing something; like he’d had the world in his hands and lost it all, Bucky couldn’t make it all make sense. _

_ Bucky hadn’t gotten many chances to look at himself in mirrors over the past few decades, so seeing his reflection in the glass in Romania broke something in him. Not only could he not recognize the person looking back at him; didn’t feel like his body was his — but it didn’t feel like a body at all. It was a damaged shell. Bucky was an empty vessel — nothing left inside of his chest; nothing behind his eyes. _

_ The guilt swallowed him; he remembered trying to drown it with alcohol. He wanted to get drunk so fucking badly and he couldn’t, what kind of cruel joke had the universe played on him?  _

_ And then Bucky got himself into this anguished state of mind where he needed to get the ugly fucking red star off his arm. He tried to  _ **_claw_ ** _ it off with his nails; because as long as it was still there Hydra still had him. He was  _ **_theirs_ ** _ and they could take and take and take. Desperate, Bucky’s fingertips were bloodied, his skin was ripped to ribbons on the metal, but the star wasn’t budging. It wouldn’t budge even when he’d tried to pry it off with a knife; he wanted it off of him, he wanted it fucking  _ **_off of him._ **

_ He felt so fucking combustible; like if someone were to drop a match at his feet the whole street would be engulfed in flame. Powerless to do anything else but stare down at the damage he’d caused —all the blood for nothing — a broken sob escaped his lungs. Bucky glared at the horrible scarring up his shoulder in a blur of hot emotion. What was it? Anger? Sadness? He wished he could drink it off — wished he could drink enough to drown. He wished he’d died, but would have much rather died by Steve's hand. _

_ With a raw throat, he had cried so hard he choked, couldn’t breathe, and slumped to the floor with his arms wrapped around himself. So fucking alone and trying to hold himself together, he had cried like the universe was collapsing — folding in on him.  _

_ Bucky remembered seeing Captain America on the news; learning Steve was alive after all. Bucky couldn’t, at the time, understand why he wept at that. (Later, he had found some trading cards in a shop — he’d bought them because it felt like being close to Steve; like having a piece of Steve hidden and  _ **_safe_ ** _ and just for himself.) _

_ And then, in a heartbreaking turn of events, Steve had  _ **_saved_ ** _ him. Steve had become a  _ **_criminal_ ** _ to save him again. ‘They’re not planning on taking you alive,’ was what Steve had told him — pleading with Bucky. _

_ Bucky remembered replying, ‘that’s smart. Good strategy.’ Something broke in Steve’s expression — Bucky could tell he disagreed by the fire blazing behind his eyes. Back in those days, he didn’t want to kill anyone — he would have rather run and hid. (Oh, how things had changed.) _

_ And Steve had been begging for Bucky to come with him. Steve had no intention of leaving — not without him.  _

_ Trying to hide away from Steve, trying to cover the scarring, Bucky felt like a monster; a murderer. Even when Steve told Bucky it  _ **_wasn’t his fault_ ** _ , he didn’t want Steve to see him like this. He hated his body. He felt so depersonalized from it. _

_ Turning his head away from Steve, he didn’t want to look at him. Bucky would have rather seen  _ **_hate_ ** _ in Steve’s eyes than pity; but he saw neither. Instead, Bucky saw understanding, conviction, and something he couldn’t place.  _

_ ‘Jesus, Buck,’ Steve had breathed. Though Steve must have known what they’d done to him and Bucky didn’t want to talk about it. Bucky knew he couldn’t keep this. Steve wouldn’t stay. The inevitability would hurt less if he leaned into the punch, so he pushed away, trying to give Steve an easy out. But Steve didn’t take it. _

_ He was starting to panic. _

In the present. Bucky knew he needed to stop thinking about it. Things were getting dark and he wasn’t  _ back  _ there — he was home. Things were different.  _ He _ was different. He just needed to focus his attention on something  _ real.  _ Breathing heavy, he was erratic.

But  _ fuck _ , fuck, fuck,  _ when had he gotten into the kitchen? _ He couldn’t for the life of him remember walking down the stairs. It was still dark out — but how much time had he lost? Oh God, what year was it; what was happening? Was any of this real? The last thing Bucky remembered, he was on the roof. He’d opened the Pandora's box and fallen headfirst right inside. 

His attention snapped to Steve flipping the switch to the overhead light. Nat was close behind him, hand on her gun in a way that was trying not to make it  _ obvious _ . There was no sound except the sporadic drip of the faucet. Bucky’s chest ached. 

“Bucky, drop the knife,” Steve said softly, having seen him walk by the living room like a ghost. Steve and Nat had looked at each other across the coffee table when they’d heard clattering in the kitchen. The movie they’d been watching was all but forgotten when Steve called Bucky’s name a few times only to receive no response. 

Looking around wide-eyed, like he didn’t know how he had gotten there, Bucky whimpered, “Oh, my God.”

Steve took a slow step forward, trying to sound as calm as possible, “Put down the knife, Buck. Please.” He didn’t know what Bucky planned on doing with it, but Steve wasn’t afraid for his  _ own _ safety. 

The knife clattered against the tile floor as Bucky opened his palm, doing what he was told. “Fuck. I  _ shot _ you, I shot you,” Bucky was staring at his hands like he didn’t know who they belonged to. 

“No, honey no, I’m okay,” Steve promised, holding out his arms as if to  _ prove it _ beyond any doubt. There was no blood on his white t-shirt, he was perfectly fine.

Sam came down the stairs two at a time, having been undoubtedly disturbed by the commotion. As not to crowd Bucky, Natasha must have waved him off because he kept his distance — letting Bucky feel like he was cornered would have been a mistake.

“I shot you  _ before,”  _ Bucky clarified. Shaking his head like he was remembering it for the very first time, Bucky backed up until he was against the counter, putting more space between them. Steve wondered if Bucky was shaking because he was scared of  _ them  _ or because he was scared of  _ him. _

“Wasn't you, doll,” Steve said firmly, arms still slightly raised, open and inviting like he wasn’t a threat. Behind him, he felt Nat back down, giving him a chance to take a few steps closer. Bucky wasn’t a danger right now — not to anyone but himself. 

“It’s my fault,” the thickness in Bucky’s voice pained Steve to hear. They’d talked about this — Bucky  _ had  _ to know that wasn’t true. Natasha made a little noise of disagreement, but didn’t say anything — she and Sam remained silent, in reserve should they need to intervene.

“You’re a victim,” Steve reminded, heart in throat — the  _ first _ victim. The Winter Soldier’s very first kill had been  _ Bucky.  _

But Bucky had clawed his way out of his grave — Bucky had come out swinging and fought the Soldier and  _ won.  _ Still being here after that was an insurmountable victory. His brave, brave boy. They hadn’t had to do this in a while, but that was okay. 

“ _ Never  _ your fault. I’ll tell ya that as long as it takes for you to believe me,” Steve swore. In the warm, yellowy light of the kitchen, Bucky hadn’t moved from his place against the cabinets. 

A few steps forward, then a few steps backward. They’d push through the bad days as they came, although, Steve  _ hated  _ that they’d both been breaking apart so  _ easily  _ lately. However much he wished he could fix it, he knew what he signed up for — and he was in it for the long haul.

“Please don’t touch me,” Bucky whispered when Steve shifted closer, stopping him in his tracks. Looking in Bucky’s storm-dark eyes and seeing 70 years of pain, Steve promised he wouldn’t — not if Bucky didn’t want him to. 

“How about we sit down, okay? We can talk about what happened,” Steve suggested. Nat and Sam were still observing hesitantly from a distance — hovering in the doorframe just in case something got out of hand. It was  _ good to know  _ he had back up, but he wasn’t going to need it.

“I’m a fucking  _ disaster,”  _ Bucky was escalating, clearly taken aback by how far down he’d just fallen in the span of only a few hours. It was just a slip; a stumble — there was no reason he couldn’t dig himself back up from below the ground. Steve believed he could. 

“You’re not, Buck, you’re not. I fucking  _ swear  _ to you you’re not. Just sit down. Breathe,” Steve was trying not to let him get to the point where he was inconsolable.

“Could hurt myself — wouldn’t hurt, not the way I want it to,” Bucky deadpanned. Slumping onto a stool at the kitchen island, Bucky said something in Russian, rubbing at his forehead like he was trying to  _ focus.  _ Steve had learned some, but was by no means fluent enough to be sure what Bucky had said. Natasha piped up from behind him. “He said ‘this is a nightmare’ — that he’s scared.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face, collecting himself briefly. Good things— they would talk about good things. “Bucky, it’s  _ okay _ . Do you remember during the war when we’d go on walks — just us. Remember when we found those blackberry bushes in the woods? And we ate so many they stained our mouths purple. Do you remember when we were kids and we’d try to bring sand in buckets back home from Coney Island because we wanted to make our own beach?”

“I remember,” Bucky said after a tense pause, head in his hands. Sam seemed to let out a breath he’d been holding from the hallway.

Laughing a little to himself, shifting his weight between his feet, Steve continued, “Do you remember the year — I was probably 11 — I said I’d given up chewing gum for Lent. So every time I saw you, you had chewing gum just to antagonize me.”

Bucky chuckled, though it sounded sad and croaky. Steve couldn’t see his face. “And then you said you’d give up seeing me after school instead, because I was a jerk anyway.”

“And you got  _ mad  _ and  _ pouted _ ,” Steve smiled, thinking fondly of tiny Bucky with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face that really wasn’t anything but  _ cute.  _

“You only lasted 2 days,” Bucky peaked up at him.

“I missed you too much,” Steve took a few more steps closer.

With a nod from Steve, Natasha and Sam returned to whatever they were doing before; backed off, like a bomb had been defused. 

“‘m sorry,” Bucky said, feeling like he could be more vulnerable now that he was talking just to Steve. He had  _ known  _ without a doubt what set him off, but admitting it meant he wouldn’t have a place in this mission anymore for his own sake. And he needed this place on the team. He’d be fine — he’d get over it.  _ Yeah,  _ he was so  _ fucked up, _ but at least he was feeling. He used to lose days at a time, this was nothing. Steve was right here with him — he’d be okay.

“Hush,” Steve breathed. “Just a bad day, doll, it happens. Take some breaths. I — do you want tea?” Bucky shook his head and murmured a soft  _ ‘no, thanks.’ _

Steve was still hovering near him, afraid to get too far away. Gripping the edge of the counter, staring at the bitten nails on his right hand Bucky asked, “what the fuck happened to us, Stevie? Why us?” The timbre of his voice was heavy and low like gravel. The way his eyes shone with unshed tears made Steve think you could take the man out of the war; couldn’t take the war out of the man.

Now it was  _ Steve _ having trouble keeping his emotions in check. “Oh,  _ love _ ... Can I touch you?” Bucky was still for a few moments before he nodded, one arm opened to Steve like he wanted him against his chest.

Standing in front of the stool, Steve pulled Buck into his arms and let Bucky’s hands grip at his shirt. Clinging to it like it was the only thing he could hold onto, Bucky buried his head against Steve’s shoulder. (If this was the only comfort Steve could give him, he’d stay just like this all night.)

“I love you, Steve. I mean it,” Bucky’s voice was muffled.

“I love you right back,” Steve promised. Squeezing his eyes shut and tightening his arms around Bucky, he was trying really hard not to think of a reality he’d fabricated somewhere in the ether; one where he’d never gone to war; one where Bucky had never been kidnapped. In his favorite daydream, Bucky had survived and come back home to him in 1945. Steve could practically  _ see _ Bucky walking up their rickety stairs and dropping his bag as he scooped Steve up in his arms, lifting him easily off his feet. In his fantasy, they’d lived a quiet life — just them and maybe some cats. Of all the pasts that could have been, no matter how implausible, that one hurt Steve the most. 

Games of ‘ _ what if’  _ were dangerous to play, so he stopped dwelling in his imagination. Steve didn’t have anything else to say; he just stroked Bucky's short hair the way he liked. 

He wished… well, that was it. He wished. 

*

Steve was right, Bucky  _ did  _ feel better the next morning, at the very least. The more hours of work he put in, the more control he felt like he had. And he needed control — having been deprived of it for so long. Today when Bucky thought about Hydra, he wasn’t sad; he just felt angry — and he could work with  _ angry. Angry _ didn’t knock him on his ass the way  _ depressed _ did.

So, he pretended that the breakdown from the night before hadn’t happened. And when he needed a moment of comfort in the afternoon meeting, he grabbed Steve’s hand underneath the table and remembered how it felt to sink into his strong embrace. 

Later in the evening, it was Steve and Natasha’s turn to clean up from dinner, seeing as Sam and Bucky had cooked. (Or at least, Bucky had made the pizza dough and Sam had complained about the way he was doing it.) 

He and Sam were playing video games in their downtime — Sam was getting ticked off at the way Bucky kept beating him. He groaned, smacking the controller down on the couch cushion when Bucky won again. 

“It’s my cat-like reflexes, don’t be too hard on yourself,” Bucky drawled, leaning his elbows on his knees.

“You know what, I think you’re cheating. I don’t know how, but I know you are,” Sam griped, starting a new game.

“Usedta fight wolves in the gulag. Had to stay sharp.” Bucky’s fingers flew over the buttons and toggles.

Sam shot him a questioning look. “...really?”

“No.” Bucky’s face didn’t change.

Sam let out an exasperated breath, never knowing when he was being serious. “You’re a dickhead.”

Bucky smirked. “It was a bear,” he said, sending another kill shot into Sam’s character. ‘Game over’ flashed across the screen.

“Come on!” Sam shouted.

Bucky grinned in response. Because maybe he couldn’t always beat Steve at video games, but he could often beat Sam.

“You good, man?” Sam asked at a lull in their banter. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen. Neither did Bucky. 

“Fine,” he didn’t mean to be so short.

“For somebody who doesn’t need any help, you look an awful lot like somebody who needs help,” Sam pressed, giving him a side-eyed glance. 

Bucky swallowed. “What’s with the third degree?” His face was heating up.

“You don’t think we all  _ give a shit _ about you, man? I wanna know how you’re doing.”

“Sorry,” Bucky softened a bit. Steve’s laugh carried from the kitchen. It sounded like summer and gold. He wondered what Nat had said that was funny. “I’m doin’ better, I guess. Just gonna.. I don’t know — roll with the punches.”

There was no easy fix. Healing wasn’t about being happy all the time — it was also about letting himself be sad when he needed to be sad. He’d learned that much.

The next day, Nat continued a similar line of questioning, but she wasn’t one to  _ pry  _ — at least not with him. Bucky was content letting her do most of the talking as they trained in the tiny basement gym together.

“You okay being back in?” Natasha asked, throwing another fist into the punching bag. She was so small in stature but she was a force to be reckoned with — in more ways than one; because she knew the answers to questions before she asked them. It was like she knew  _ everything _ .

Bucky sat down on the bench and took a long drink of water. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

“But you wouldn’t say so if it was too much,” she said, fixing her piercing blue eyes on him, cutting right to the heart of things. She knew him too well — it was almost scary. 

“I can handle it,” (Bucky thought it would be much  _ worse _ if he was right about that.)

“Ya know, when I started with Shield,” Nat said, a little out of breath. “I had a lot of red in my ledger. Thought I could wipe it out with more blood. Couldn’t. It all stains the same.” Sweat stuck wisps of her hair to her forehead, she brushed them out of her eyes with the back of her hand, then placed it on her hip. “And I’m not telling you  _ not _ to do this, just make sure you know where your heart is at the end of it.”

Bucky nodded, rubbing his palms together, elbows against his knees. He normally didn’t volunteer a lot of information about himself, but this felt too important not to say. “I  _ do _ want out. When this is over, I mean. I want out. I don’t think this is who I am anymore.”

Natasha stepped back from the punching bag, tightened her ponytail, and took a sip of her water. “You’ve more than earned that.”

A crease appeared between her eyebrows and she ran her thumbnail over the lid of her water bottle. “Can I ask you something? Why did you trust me so quickly?” 

It was months and months ago now — it felt like a lifetime. Bucky didn’t know how to answer, truthfully. Maybe it was because he’d seen her trade sides to help him and Steve get away from Stark — how she was there for them when it  _ counted.  _ Maybe it was because Steve trusted her, and Bucky trusted Steve. Maybe it was also because, in a way, they were the same — both healing from things they couldn’t talk about; doing the best they could with what they’d been given. Maybe seeing the good in Natasha was like seeing the good in himself.

Or — deeper, darker even — maybe it went all the way back to the Red Room; though it seemed taboo to mention. She never brought it up, so neither would he. Both of them were content enough with pretending it hadn’t happened — that Bucky hadn’t trained her; practically raised her; that he hadn’t pushed her until she was deadly. (Well, the Soldier did, he reminded himself. That’s what Steve would have said — that it wasn’t him.) Bucky could have said, ‘I remember.’ He could have said, ‘I know you remember, too.’ He could have said, ‘I’m sorry.’

He didn’t say any of that. What Bucky  _ did  _ say was, “you’re a good person, Natasha.” 

Giving him a small smile, she playfully shoved his shoulder.

*

Steve had picked up the habit of drawing in the evenings after meetings now, because it kept him calm. His favorite place was sitting across from Bucky under the bay windows in the milky twilight, which was where he found himself now. On the opposite side of him, Bucky was reading with his book propped up against his knees.  _ Frankenstein.  _ (He’d told Steve he guessed he resonated with the monster. Steve was about to tell him he  _ wasn’t a monster— _ but Bucky explained the plot, all the themes, all the subtext so well that Steve just kept his mouth shut and listened.)

Sketchbook in Steve’s lap, just their socked feet were touching. He was drawing Bucky's face, finding it far more interesting than any of the still lifes he’d worked on over the week. (Steve thought his sketch was turning out pretty well, though he never, in all his years, had gotten Bucky’s eyes exactly right. The graphite was never expressive enough.) 

It was hot outside again — muggy, but not uncomfortably so. (They were a long way from winter.) The sun’s descent below the tree line had cooled it off. The window was cracked only slightly to let in the breeze, and a current of air ruffled Bucky’s hair. Bucky reached up to run his fingers through it, absently tugging on a strand as he read.

“Quit movin’ so much,” Steve muttered, nudging his knee against Bucky’s — the same way he used to complain about Bucky never keeping still. 

Bucky breathed a laugh, dropping his chin into his hand. “You drawin’ me?”

Tapping his pencil against the paper, Steve replied, “Maybe,” though he didn’t care that it wasn’t a secret. “Can’t help that you’re so nice to look at.”

“You’re full of shit,” Bucky rolled his eyes, but smiled that wide, lopsided smile. 

“And you’re beautiful,” Steve said dreamily. It was  _ objectively  _ the truth. Bucky was all rugged and dark haired with a tinge of stubble and those  _ eyes  _ that could pull Steve in like sirensong to a sailor. It made sense why all the dames had been so taken with him — it wasn’t Bucky’s fault. All he had to do was bat his eyelashes and it would have been over for them. Steve knew the feeling. 

“What did I tell ya about sweet talkin’ me, Rogers?” Bucky ran his thumb over his bottom lip, eyeing him from the other side of the window seat. “You wanna go upstairs?” Obviously this wasn’t a fix for a few bad mental health days — it wasn’t an antidote for the sadness, but Bucky liked the taste all the same. Maybe they could distract each other for a few lovely hours.

Steve shot him a speculative look, a tiny smile playing on his lips and a crease between his eyebrows.

“I ain’t above beggin’, sweetheart,” Bucky elaborated, leaning forward, close to his ear.

“Good  _ God,”  _ Steve muttered under his breath, shutting his sketchbook and letting the back of his head fall against the wall behind him. “That mouth of yours is gonna get you into trouble.”

“Mm, I’m countin’ on it,” Bucky said coyly. Steve felt like he couldn’t stop  _ staring.  _

And after, swathed in the warmth of their bed, Steve turned his head to watch Bucky sleep. He was taking up most of the bed; most of the blankets — just like he had in their old life. Facing away from him, Bucky had Steve’s arm pillowed under his head and fingers entangled with his. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions, but Steve wouldn’t have considered moving. Watching the dimple in his shoulder, the way the muscles in his back moved when he shifted — Steve wished he was artistically gifted enough to capture  _ this  _ exactly; to keep it forever.

*

The nightmare wasn’t a nightmare so much as it was a memory.

_ If the circumstances had been different, Bucky probably would have talked to Steve beforehand for moral support. (But Bucky didn’t want to worry him about  _ **_this_ ** _ on top of everything else — Steve’s Ma had just died. Life had been cruel. It had taken and taken and taken.) _

_ But Bucky’s sudden departure from home had gone as well as he’d expected. At the last minute, Bucky had stockpiled enough courage to announce that he couldn’t stay — that Steve needed him and he was leaving. (He didn’t bring up the fact that  _ **_this_ ** _ had  _ **_never_ ** _ felt like home.)  _

_ Bucky remembered his bag being packed, standing in the kitchen as silence fell over his family. His father had gotten up from the table; had approached him unnervingly slowly. Bucky's heart thudded to a stop. He froze, intentionally not looking him in the eye, like a wild prey animal. Scarcely breathing, scarcely blinking, Bucky clenched and unclenched his jaw. Being as Bucky’s father was taller and sturdier than him, that alone was  _ **_intimidating_ ** _ enough — even without the rage emanating from him. His mother and sisters sat with bated breath, eyes huge at the table. Looking right at them, Bucky couldn’t really see them. His eyes were unfocused and everything was hazy and gray — black at the edges. _

_ Normally, they didn’t see this when it happened — they shouldn’t have had to see this. Hanna was still so young. Bucky was the oldest — supposed to protect them from this shit. Trying to be quiet enough to not exist at all, he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.  _

_ “What you do with that Rogers boy, it’s  _ **_disgraceful_ ** _ ,” his father spit, low and dangerous in his ear. Bucky swallowed, mouth dry. Fight or flight instinct was starting to kick in; was speeding his heart because he knew how bad this was going to be.  _

_ He’d never even  _ **_touched_ ** _ Steve — not like that. (Though not for lack of wanting to.) He guessed the suspicion alone was enough to vilify him — to ruin the Barnes family’s collective reputation. His father grabbed him by the jaw, forcing him to meet his merciless eyes. _

_ He said they should have  _ **_institutionalized_ ** _ Bucky far before now — that he was  _ **_sick_ ** _ ; that if Bucky walked out the door now he was not his father’s son.  _

_ He  _ **_tried_ ** _. He tried to build up a playboy reputation because even that would have been more acceptable to his father. He denied himself  _ **_to himself_ ** _ for so long — tried so desperately to _ **_feel something_ ** _ for women. Bucky guessed it was obvious that he was never interested enough. But Bucky couldn’t force a feeling that wasn’t there, and he was so  _ **_exhausted_ ** _ from trying. At his breaking point, there was nothing he could do — his father would always resent him.  _

_ Bucky held his tongue, tried to tread lightly like his mother had always suggested; tried not to do anything to make his father angrier.  _

_ And then he must have gotten hit, but everything was blank except Rebecca screaming, his mother crying and attempting to usher the four younger girls out of the room. His next coherent thought came when he was stumbling through the doorway of his and Steve’s new apartment. His keys slipped a few times; he couldn’t get them into the lock with his shaking hands. _

_ Steve looked up to greet him, brushing his teeth at the tiny sink. The expectant smile on his face fell away as he saw the state Bucky was in when he came through the door. “Bucky!  _ **_Christ_ ** _ , what’s..” he sounded strangled, shocked. Of course he was startled, Bucky had shown up in the middle of the night with a bag of his belongings and an already blackening eye; a bloody nose. He’d probably scared the  _ **_shit_ ** _ out of Steve. _

_ It had never been this obvious before. Steve had never seen him quite like this. Bucky wasn’t talking— trying to keep the pain off his face; to numb himself to it. _

_ “What  _ **_happened_ ** _?” Steve asked, coming closer. “Please say something,” Steve looked frantic. Bucky knew he needed to say something. _

_ “They made it real clear I ain’t welcome back,” Bucky tried to make it into a joke, but his voice was flat and toneless in his raw throat. It sounded foreign to his own ears. He’d tried so hard to be someone his father could love, he guessed he’d never gotten it right. Overtly aware he was still staring at the floor instead of the man in front of him, Bucky dropped his bag at his feet. _

_ “Sit down, your nose is bleeding,” Steve scrambled to find a cloth to clean it with. Bucky didn’t complain, slumping heavily into a kitchen chair and glancing down at his bloodstained shirt.  _

_ Steve stood over him, his thin fingers gently guided Bucky’s chin up — so different from the hands that had gripped his jaw hard enough to leave bruises there. _

_ He knew Steve was probably looking in his eyes to check for a concussion, but it made Bucky feel better just a moment to  _ **_pretend_ ** _ it was only because he wanted to look at him. Steve was so sweet with him — and Bucky wished it meant something more to Steve; but he would take anything he could get.  _

_ “Because we’re moving in together?” Steve asked, barely above a whisper, eyes swimming with a cocktail of hot anger and heavy sadness. Bucky nodded tersely, silently berating himself because  _ **_he should have fought back; Steve would have fought back._ **

_ “I don’t care. I would do it all over again. End of the line, right?” Bucky said, like a covenant. Bucky knew this life was going to be hard for them both — no family; backbreaking labor to keep food on the table; sideways glances from neighbors. He didn’t give a shit what anyone said about him. He didn’t mind any of it, so long as he had this, too — even if they had absolutely nothing but each other.  _

_ Bucky held onto Steve’s tiny wrist as he was dabbing at his bloody nose. Steve could have made a dig about how normally it was Bucky cleaning blood off of  _ **_his_ ** _ face. He didn’t. _ “Would you?” Bucky asked, biting on the inside of his lip. “Take it back?” Steve stilled for a moment, then he set the rag down and took one of Bucky’s hands in both of his smaller ones. 

_ “No. Not in a million years.” _

Bucky jolted himself awake to Steve carding fingers through his hair. (It was nearly the same comfort Steve had given him when it had happened, when Bucky was bruised and scared and  _ restless _ ; when Bucky could have gone to his own bed, but Steve’s felt safer.)

“Shh, it’s a nightmare, sweetheart. We’re at a safe house, it’s 2018. You’re okay,” Steve promised. 

“M’ okay,” Bucky repeated, exhaling. He was okay — here in the warmth of Steve’s arms he could separate the past from the present.

“Wanna talk about it?” Steve asked, a gentle hand against his back.

Bucky remembered the screaming; he remembered Rebecca pleading with his father to  _ please _ stop hurting him. He remembered Steve asking about his sisters later that traumatic night — worrying if they were okay, if they were safe. Yes, they had been okay. His father  _ doted  _ on the girls — they were his pride and joy. Of course they were okay, because if Bucky’d had any reason to believe they weren’t, he never would have left them there. The disdain his father held was especially for him. 

Bucky never saw his sisters again. 

He had written to them during the war— couldn’t imagine how devastated they must have been when his letters stopped coming. (When his mother would have been notified he was  _ missing presumed dead.)  _ Bucky could forgive himself for putting distance between himself and his parents, but not his sisters.

“The girls shouldn’t have had to see that,” he said flatly into the darkness. Steve looked over at him, paused to scratch blunt nails soothingly over his back. “When I left home,” Bucky clarified.

“You shouldn’t’ve had to _go_ _through_ that,” Steve said quietly. “I should’ve —,”

Bucky cut him off. “Nothin’ you coulda done, Stevie. He woulda killed ya,” And that was that. He didn’t want to  _ dwell  _ on why the memory still hurt eighty some years later. 

It had been good — life in their Brooklyn apartment. He wouldn’t have changed anything. It was  _ hard _ but it was lovely. So many memories of quiet nights with Steve; of singing along with records; of Steve having dinner ready for them when Bucky got home from the docks; of reading aloud his favorite passages from sci-fi books and Steve being just as enraptured in the stories. It was  _ perfect _ . Until Bucky got drafted.

Bucky didn’t want to go back to sleep, he wasn’t sure what kind of fresh hell his psyche would put him through if he let his guard down again. 

“I need to go downstairs. I need..” Bucky trailed off. He didn’t know what he needed— maybe something to ground him in the present. Unsure of whether he wanted a cigarette, or to claw at his skin, or to wrap himself in a blanket and watch stupid cartoons — he was already throwing back the covers. Feet on the cold hardwood floor, Bucky pulled on a pair of sweatpants. 

“I’ll come with you,” Steve blinked at him, bleary eyed, fumbling around for his clothes. 

“Sleep, sugar. You’re tired.” 

“I’m coming with you,” Steve pressed.

They left the lights off in the hallway and crept soundlessly down the stairs with some blankets. Bucky made up the couch like a bed while Steve flipped through channels, keeping the volume low enough not to wake the others. He’d apparently settled on some animated children’s movie about monsters, eliciting a chuckle from Bucky.

Bucky found himself wedged between the couch cushions and Steve, whose head was tucked under his chin not even bothering to turn toward the tv. His nose nuzzled against Bucky’s neck. The couch was nearly too small for them both like this, but neither man minded all too much. The curtains of the bay windows were closed, preventing the light from the moon from disturbing them— though it was low in the sky by now.

This was nice — it was a good distraction from his  _ own personal  _ monsters. He was already starting to feel better. It was such a trivial moment, nothing extraordinary, but it made Bucky feel  _ so  _ safe. Maybe it was the blankets, or the inane animated movie, or the solid weight of Steve on his chest that made him feel like nothing could hurt him. 

Bucky ran his metal fingers through Steve’s short hair, telling him he should sleep if he was tired. It was still a few hours before 6, and even Steve didn’t like to be up that early. Watching the brightly colored creatures on the screen for a little while longer, Bucky was distracted every so often by Steve's slow, even breath against his skin. It was a weird feeling, knowing the world was asleep, that sunrise would start to brighten the pitch black sky soon — but for now it was just them. It felt like a secret when Steve whispered he loved him, starting to drift off.

“Miss them,” Bucky said, mostly just to himself— to the ceiling fan in the dark living room; knowing Steve was asleep. But it felt better just to say the words. “Wonder what they woulda been like. Wonder how their lives went,” though Bucky was glad they’d never had to see him like this. Scratching Steve’s back through his white cotton t-shirt, he didn’t expect a response.

(And after all those years, Bucky still couldn’t understand how two men loving each other was disgraceful, yet his father's violence wasn’t.)

*

They were asleep on the couch the next morning when Sam came downstairs. As he cleared his throat loudly, Steve squinted one eye open. 

“Y’all didn’t fuck on that couch, right? I feel like that needs to be a ground rule, man. We all have to sit there,” Sam complained, cringing at the prospect of his suspicions being true.

Without opening his eyes, Bucky chucked a spare pillow at Sam, and of course he didn’t miss.

Steve groaned. Just how depraved did Sam think they were? They had enough decorum to at least be considerate of other people’s space. “ _ No,  _ we didn’t fuck on the couch.  _ Jesus.” _

Bucky was still looking at the backs of his eyelids, but he felt the rumble of Steve's laughter against his chest. Shoving one arm under the pillow behind his head, he looped the other around Steve’s waist, a smirk playing across his face. He felt around with his foot for the blanket to pull back up over them, but he guessed it had been kicked to the floor in their sleep. Steve left a kiss on the underneath of his chin.

*

They enjoyed the breezy part of early summer when they had moments to themselves, but far too soon for Bucky's liking, the heat of July returned. It was uncomfortable to sleep in, but they didn’t leave the window open at night. Steve didn’t ask to, though it would have done wonders for the air circulation. 

Steve woke up to soft, close-mouthed kisses brushed against his cheek; his jaw. Smiling, without opening his eyes more than a crack, he snaked an arm around Bucky's shoulders.

“Happy birthday, old man,” Bucky said, punctuating it with one more kiss to his collarbone. 

Groaning good naturedly, Steve chuckled and pressed his lips the top of Bucky's head in return. “You’re older than me.”

This was his first birthday spent with Bucky in so, so long — the first birthday in years he’d had nothing to wish for. It was sentimental and a bit overwhelming. 

“I have something for ya later,” Bucky said, pulling back to look at him.

“Oh yeah?” Steve raised his eyebrows.

“That ain’t an innuendo, I actually do have a present for ya. Although, I think I could probably pencil in some time to —,”

“Okay, okay, Buck,” Steve laughed. Bucky kissed his face again and nosed at his temple. “You know you didn’t have to get me anything.” They’d never done much by way of presents for birthdays, Christmases, Hanukkah’s when they were poor, but they had always found ways to make things special for each other.

After Bucky made breakfast, the two of them took a hike to a river a short distance away. In the woods, secluded enough from the view of anyone else, Bucky pinned Steve against a tree and fell to his knees in front of him. When Bucky’s hands reached up to undo the buckle of his belt, Steve’s brain felt like it was short circuiting. His mouth fell open when Bucky looked up at him with those big, beautiful doe eyes and that sly smile.

They spent the rest of the day wading in the river with their pants rolled up past their ankles. Laying in the grass, holding hands, Steve let Bucky complain about the weather — about how he didn’t like it too hot, but he didn’t like it too cold, either. Bucky said he’d earned his right — after a hundred years on this earth — to be pissed off about  _ whatever the fuck  _ he wanted, and Steve couldn’t argue with his logic. 

Steve felt like they’d always been opposites, summer and winter, two sides of a coin — but twin flames; old as the universe. When he was young and had a quicker temper, Bucky had always mellowed him out, being the slower one to anger. Steve would be the one swinging punches at bullies, and Bucky would be the one dragging him backwards by his suspenders. Bucky had been all bark without a bite. Now, even as the roles had switched — they’d changed like the tides — they still balanced each other. Where one would push, the other would pull.

When they got back to the house, Natasha set out a cake, chocolate with vanilla frosting and an absurd number of candles. Ridiculous red, white, and blue decorations adorned the living room. Steve halted in his tracks, a look of soft surprise on his face. Glancing back to Bucky for an explanation, Steve received a wide, eye-crinkling grin and a hand against the small of his back instead.

“When did you do all this?” Steve asked Natasha. Really, Steve hadn’t been expecting anything. It would have been  _ more  _ than fine if his birthday passed by quietly.

“Bucky helped me make the cake yesterday, Sam did the decorations,” Natasha said, lighting the candles.

“I thought you’d get a kick out of the theme,” Sam laughed, pulling Steve into a one-armed hug and clapping him on the back. “Happy birthday.”

“How did I miss that?” Steve wondered.

“We’re spies. Blow out your damn candles. This is a fire hazard,” Nat joked.

“Did you fit them  _ all?” _

“Of course I did,” she elbowed him in the ribs.

So he blew out the candles, though it took him a few moments of consideration before he knew what to wish for. Sam started cutting the cake while Bucky insisted Steve open the present from him  _ first.  _ It was a copy of Steve’s  _ favorite  _ photograph of them in the war that he’d gotten enhanced and digitally restored, conspiring with Natasha, of course. He gave Bucky a hug and a chaste kiss on the lips as a ‘ _ thank you’,  _ but it meant more to Steve than he could form into words. Sam got him a record from a band Steve  _ absolutely  _ needed to listen to — Steve was sure he was going to love it, he always trusted Sam’s music recommendations. Nat gifted him a thrifted sweater that read, ‘ _ I heart my grandkids’,  _ much to his amusement. (He couldn’t wait for the weather to get colder again so he could wear it.) “Really, guys, you didn’t have to do all this.”

“Well, it’s not everyday grandpa turns the big 100,” Sam shot him a toothy smile.

The part he  _ didn’t  _ like about his birthday came later, when the sun went down and neighbors in the distance set off fireworks. Steve hadn’t cared for fireworks after the war, and he couldn’t imagine anyone else in the house liked them all too much either. (They were just a little  _ jumpy _ , but all of them hid their varying levels of discomfort well.) It was just one of those things they’d learned to live with. Like how Sam didn’t like the sound of planes; how Natasha couldn’t listen to classical music.

Steve didn’t let himself lament the invention of pyrotechnics until he was in bed with Bucky at the end of the night; when Bucky turned to him, illuminated by flickering reds and blues from the other side of the window and said ‘ _ Stevie’  _ with a broken voice.

“I know, baby. Me too. Come ‘ere,” Steve soothed, opening his arms. Bucky pulled a pillow overtop of his head in a weak attempt to block out the noise. “It’ll be over soon,” he promised as Bucky settled against him. 

So they talked to each other in hushed voices as a distraction — heads close together like the words weren’t meant to escape into the air around them and float too far away. 

It never made sense to Steve why celebrating a country with explosives was deemed proper, especially when so many veterans came home with PTSD. (He’d never understand a lot of things about this country.) But he didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to think about the stupid jokes Bucky was making and the slow timbre of his voice and the body heat on his skin.

Steve fell asleep trying not to hear gunfire.

*

High highs and low lows — the crashing crests of waves. Every good day had Steve preparing for something worse, and by the end of the week they had found it. 

Natasha had gotten off of a short phone call that shifted the trajectory of their subsequent plans. “That was Clint, fellas. Tony fucking Stark is looking for us. And not out of the goodness of his heart,” she said, breezing through the doorway though looking like she was ready to turn into a storm. “Clint’s trying to keep them off our scent, but we’re running out of time. We have to move.”

Sam paused the movie they were watching. Reality was setting in— just like that, they were fugitives again. “And he’s the government’s lackey?”

“More like a subcontractor, I suppose.”

“Why? Why now?” Steve asked after a beat of silence, “Because of the Hydra deaths?” Those were  _ months  _ ago, it didn’t seem like likely reasoning.

“No, it’s more about the other missing persons cases from various government bodies over the last few weeks,” Natasha explained. “He’s sending over some reports.”

“Those ain’t.. mine,” Bucky promised, knowing Steve  _ understood  _ that, but still feeling the need to defend himself.

“ _ We  _ know that — but someone’s trying really hard to make it look like they are. Don’t know whether this is opportunity or strategy,” Nat said. “But it’s not random.”

“Did any of them have ties to Hydra?” Sam asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“There’s speculation, but no ones gonna admit it without solid proof, and we won’t get that from a jail cell,” Natasha said it like  _ jail cell _ was a generous presumption. More likely, they’d all be too dead to talk about what they’d uncovered unless they proved their point outright. 

Steve nodded. “If anyone wants to abandon ship before this gets ugly —,” He deferred to Sam’s judgement.

“Steve, you won’t catch me crawling my ass back to  _ Tony Stark.  _ If I have to choose between the guy who shot at me  _ brainwashed  _ and the guy who shot me point blank  _ intentionally,  _ I’m picking Bucky.”

Steve couldn’t argue with Sam’s logic. The Tony Stark fan club did seem to be dwindling these days. Bucky was taciturn, the way he usually was in meetings.

“Say something, man. I never know what you’re thinking,” Sam complained. (Bucky did have one  _ hell  _ of a poker face.) 

“There’s a record book — like an actual book; to keep everything off the internet. Every name. Think of it like signing your soul away to the devil. Pragmatically a bad move — real cliche — but it exists. And if there’s a compound left, it would be in there. I could draw a map from what I remember,” Bucky said.

“Okay. So we find the building. We go in and take the records — anything else they’re hiding. Take out any Hydra agent in the way — everything else burns. They can’t ignore it, they can’t say we were unjustified, and they can’t fault Bucky for the missing persons cases,” Sam cracked his knuckles like he was ready to get started. 

They had a tentative plan. They knew roughly what their next steps were, but they could have done with more preparation, if Stark wasn’t forcing their hand.

Taking Bucky by the shoulders, Steve said earnestly, “Buck, they won’t go into this asking questions. If anyone catches up to us...” 

(They wouldn't want him alive. Bucky knew. Should anything happen, Steve and the others had a better chance of being taken in, but Bucky had never outrun the target on his back.) Steve's eyes searched his face. “They can’t extradite you from Wakanda.” 

T’Challa had assured him that he and Steve would both be welcomed back with open arms. But Bucky wouldn’t run again. “Steve, I said I’d follow you anywhere. Meant it.”

“We’re outta here at nightfall,” Sam concluded. Late afternoon sun blinked through the drawn shades. 

*

Go-bags, tactical gear — everything was packed and ready for a quick departure under the cover of darkness. Steve hated to be leaving again. They were running through last minute checklists, loading things into the truck, which, as per the plan, they’d switch out for an inconspicuous white painter’s van on the way. 

Bucky tried to get a nap in; Steve couldn’t have slept if he tried — this reminded him too much of the barracks in the war. He felt the same uncertainty, the same fire-eating adrenaline. (It had never really gone away.) 

_ Steve remembered walking near the perimeter gates of the base with Bucky during rare moments they could steal for themselves away from prying eyes. Whatever happened there was just between them and the moon.  _

_ Close-but-not-too-close; close enough that the backs of their hands would brush every so often. Close enough the space between them felt like static. (Steve wondered if Bucky could feel it too.)  _

_ Steve was still getting used to seeing such vibrant colors — he was still struck dumb sometimes by the blue of Buckys eyes. Steve loved the way they looked darker than they normally would in his deep blue uniform. God, Steve loved that uniform — with the color complimenting his own so well; with the wing insignia on his helmet the same as on Bucky's arm. They weren’t just on the same team — it ran deeper than that. They were carrying fragments of each other into hellfire. (They were each other’s, entirely, entirely. Steve knew why he loved that pin so much.) _

_ Dappled in silvery light, interrupted by the shadows of the trees, Bucky was breathtaking. There were no two ways around it. Even as rugged and disheveled as he was. Both of them were so tired — on the tail end of a skirmish gearing up already for another mission. Though Steve wasn’t tired enough to dissuade himself from skipping sleep for a smoke break with Bucky. _

_ Steve didn’t need the smoke as a remedy for his bad lungs anymore — it was more like a comfort. (Later, Steve realized maybe Bucky had been the comfort. He didn’t feel like smoking much after the Fall.) _

_ Leaning back, Bucky brought one foot up against the fence like his bones were aching and fumbled with a match to light a cigarette. When the flame wouldn’t catch, Bucky grumbled— cigarette still balanced precariously between his teeth, “Fuck. That was my last one.” _

_ Faltering in his steps, Steve came to a halt in front of Bucky before he could think any better of it. “Here, breathe in,” he said, touching the end of his own cigarette to Bucky’s and watching the spark. _

_ Steve swore he blacked out for a moment when Bucky exhaled. They were so close, but he didn’t pull away.  _

_ Everything around him smelt like the woods and tobacco and spice and something so distinctly  _ **_Bucky_ ** _.  _

_ Left wondering why it felt like they’d kissed just then, Steve sucked in a breath through his teeth. _

_ A slow, lazy smile spread across Bucky’s lips as he exhaled. If Steve were a more daring man, he may have even run his thumb against the dimple in Bucky’s chin like he yearned to. Paralyzed with conflicted temptation, wanting to suck on that full bottom lip — transfixed by Bucky’s pretty, bowed mouth — Steve dared to allow himself the fleeting thought of falling to his knees right there and — _

_ “If I were a dame, I’d be swooning, Rogers,” Bucky said coyly, eyes only half-lidded through the smoke; dark and effortlessly beautiful — it wasn’t fair. _

_ After a brief lag where his brain was trying to understand the words that had come out of Bucky’s mouth, Steve thought, ‘I’m glad you’re not a dame.’ Though, to his credit, he had enough wits about him to keep it to himself. Grateful for the cover of darkness to conceal his blush, Steve heaved out a breath and took a long pull from his cigarette, pushing all the words back down into his chest. _

_ If Bucky was a dame they could go dancing in public. If Bucky was a dame, they wouldn’t have gotten angry looks from their neighbors for living together. If Bucky was a dame, Steve would probably have already asked him something ridiculous like ‘will you marry me.’  _

_ But Steve knew in his soul he could never love a dame the way he loved Bucky. (That scared him profoundly.) He swallowed. It was hard to focus when Bucky was looking at him from under his eyelashes like that— like he knew just what he was doing.  _

_ Steve was still getting used to this height difference, as well — though he wasn’t opposed to it in the slightest. He’d been worried Bucky would look at him differently— he still felt so strange in his new body. Like he was crowding Bucky's space. That didn’t seem to be the case, because Bucky’s free hand grazed Steve’s hip; pulled him a few inches closer. This was dangerous; they were out in the open. But Steve kind of liked the way  _ **_reckless_ ** _ felt on him. This man — oh God, he would let this man be the death of him.  _

_ In a way he hoped looked smooth, or at least nonchalant, Steve leaned his hand against the fence beside Bucky's head. Their chests were nearly touching and Bucky’s smile had left his lips, replaced with something more serious, more meaningful. They stood silent, breathing in each other’s smoke more than their own. _

_ He wanted to kiss him — really kiss him — not just the chaste pecks they’d stolen from each other. Steve wanted a kiss like the one on the Ferris wheel — the one he’d dreamed up. But if that was going to happen at all, it would have to wait until they were in a tent or a dugout somewhere, in the lonesome quiet that came with stealth missions.  _

_ “Steve,” Bucky cautioned. He said it quietly; soothing a thumb along the divot in Steve's hip as a consolation.  _

_ Just then, as if to prove Bucky’s point, a pair of soldiers started down the path, making their security rounds. Startled, Steve retreated back a few steps like he’d been shocked. Bucky yanked his hand away and shoved his cigarette back between his lips. Watching the flash of fear across Bucky’s face, Steve thought he caught something else — maybe a tinge of sadness— as he looked down at the ground.  _

_ Positioning himself between Bucky and the other men, Steve was trying very hard to look inconspicuous as they continued walking, like he and Bucky had just been on a perfectly wholesome stroll. Though, he was still running through worst case scenarios, thinking of any excuses he could give to keep Bucky safe from disciplinary actions — to implicate himself as the cause instead.  _

_ A dishonorable discharge would mean losing their benefits if they went home, being court martialed would leave them in serious financial trouble — and they weren’t very well off as it was. _

_ His heart didn’t stop hammering, even after the two soldiers had passed them on the trail and continued on, not having seen anything salacious. Bucky let out a breath, eyes still wide and a little shaken but clearly trying not to show it. He ashed his cigarette against the side of the fence. _

_ “So,” Steve's voice a nervous waver, “You ready for tomorrow?” _

_ Bucky nudged him with his shoulder, regaining some of his casual composure. “As long as you won’t be drivin’.” _

_ “Hey, I’m a good driver, you jerk,” Steve insisted halfheartedly. Not that either one of them had a lot of experience with driving before they’d gone to war. _

_ “You’re  _ **_not_ ** _ , Stevie. Why they ever let you behind a wheel is a mystery to me. It’s like you’re  _ **_tryin’_ ** _ to hit things.”  _

_ “So what? I get us there in one piece,” Steve complained. _

_ “You give me heart palpitations, is what ya do,” Bucky contradicted. _

_ Sobering a bit, kicking at a small rock on the path, Bucky continued. “Are you scared?” It wasn’t something they normally talked about— not wanting to speak it into the universe, seeing as they’d made it through so far relatively unscathed.  _

_ Then Bucky scoffed at himself without waiting for a reply. “Course you ain’t scared. You’re Captain America.”  _

_ He was teasing, of course. He’d told Steve enough times that the title — all the other changes — didn’t bring worth with them. He’d always seen Steve as strong and brave — even when he was sick and weak. And now, it was just that the  _ **_rest of the world_ ** _ got to see him how Bucky did, he’d said. (Steve didn’t know at the time if he’d detected a hint of bitterness in Bucky’s statement, or if he was imagining it.)  _

_ “You ain’t scared of anything,” Bucky concluded. _

_ That wasn’t true at all. There was something that could wake Steve up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. If he didn’t say so now, Steve worried he never would. “‘m scared of losing you.” _

_ Steve said it almost to himself, like he was unworthy of it — like his voice would give. _

_ He thought he’d lost Bucky once before. Steve remembered running through corridors in vain, praying that Bucky was still there somewhere — even when he’d heard from everyone how impossible it was. He remembered how his body felt like lead staring at Bucky strapped down to the table. _

_ Bucky’s mouth fell open, then he clamped it shut again. It was silent for a couple of heartbeats, besides the chirping of nocturnal insects and breeze through the grass. He took a last, long drag of his cigarette before stomping it out in the dirt. _

_ “You ain’t gonna lose me. We’re both goin’ home at the end of this. And 50 years from now you’re still gonna be pickin’ fights with guys twice your size,” Bucky said it with so much certainty — intensity like he himself could bring on a shift in the weather. Like the tides would bend to his will — yield to him. Like he could charm the devil himself with a bat of his eyelashes.  _

_ Steve found himself believing Bucky's declaration against his better judgement.  _

_ “Steve, I — ,” Bucky was looking at him strangely, until he avoided Steve’s eyes altogether and clamped his mouth shut again. _

_ “What is it?” _

_ “It’s nothin,” Bucky said to the ground. “Never mind.” Bucky's expression asked him to leave it alone, so he did.  _

_ * _

The next day found them in a work van headed west. Natasha and Sam were in the front seats, leaving Bucky and Steve I’m back with the gear. Only a handful of moments away from their destination, they were quiet — just looking at each other. There was so much in the air between them and they didn’t have to  _ say _ anything. Feeling more tangibly today the phantom thread that entangled them — that never let them get too far apart — Steve set his jaw in determination.

It was like every other time they’d gone into battle together — like every other time they’d protect each other’s backs. Steve knew Bucky was always his first pick for a right hand man. There was nobody he trusted more. 

“You ready?” Steve asked, crinkle in his brow. They were crouched, bracing themselves against the walls of the van as Sam sped down the highway — prepared to make a hasty exit when they turned off the main road 

Bucky nodded, face unreadable.

“Wait, I — before we go, I have these,” Steve said. Reaching into his utility belt, Steve pulled out a chain. “To keep you safe,” Steve promised, slipping the dog tags over Bucky’s head. 

The metal clinked against the Star of David he still wore when he tucked it under his collar. Keeping his hand pressed to his chest Bucky leaned up to close the few inches between them and kissed Steve. Gently, Steve’s free hand cupped his face. If this was the last kiss Bucky got, it damn well have better been a good one. 

He leaned his forehead against Steve’s. They didn’t have to say anything else, but Bucky understood if this was  _ it _ for him, at least he’d known what it was to be happy. Never long enough; never enough time — but he’d had the  _ world _ for the briefest of moments. The pain was a compromise.

They felt Sam pulling the van onto a side road, felt the ground change from pavement to something less maintained. Every bump shook them.

Standing, bracing himself to jump out when the van stopped, Steve knew they hadn’t had good luck picking fights recently. They were running on momentum — running on empty. And this plan, when reduced down to the bare bones, was just to  _ give them hell. _

The prayers his mother had ingrained in him as a child were a steady hum in the back of his skull. Biting the inside of his cheek, he looked at Bucky. 

_ ‘Through the intercession of St. Michael, the archangel, _

_ be our protection in battle against all evil. Help us to overcome war and violence.’ _

Bucky reached out and squeezed his hand. 

‘.. _ make us worthy, we ask you, to be delivered from all our enemies, that none of them may harass us at the hour of death, but that we may be conducted by him into your presence.’ _

If Steve was on better terms with God, he might have even crossed himself. Instead he squeezed Bucky’s hand back and they threw open the door.

  
‘ _ Amen.’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments keep me going !!
> 
> (I’m thinking about doing a pre-war fic, would anyone be interested?)


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky thought the war was easier. 

He was  _ made  _ of war; down to the marrow of his bones — he and Steve both. Bourne and died of it. Peacetime didn’t stand to reason. Maybe it had, long ago — not anymore. Conciliation felt like anticipating the next disaster. Battle scarred, gun shy — he’d been only just stumbling into adulthood on gangly legs when he’d gotten that conscription notice. Playground to battleground, and he’d never made it home from the fight. 

As the team ditched the car, they were vigilant, trying to move quickly and operating on the assumption someone could be tailing them. Whether Hydra or Stark’s allies — neither would have made for good company. Silently, they trekked through the forest; off any discernible trail and over uneven ground. 

Being as he had a shield, Steve took point, leaving Sam to bring up the rear — protect their backs. Steve  _ did  _ have a healthy dose of apprehension in him. It was, however, balanced with a composure teetering  _ just _ on the edge of  _ trigger-happy.  _ A manner that was so characteristically  _ Steve  _ under pressure — joking that this felt like having his barbershop quartet back together.

(He was so accustomed to this dynamic — it was comfortable; like becoming reacquainted with an old friend and learning that their favorite color hadn’t changed.)

Bucky knew what he meant. If he closed his eyes, he could picture Morita cracking a joke or Jones speaking to Dernier in hushed French. It was almost like they’d never really left him. 

( _ Bucky remembered being heart-sickened, finding out the fate of his friends. Walking along the banks of the river in Wakanda, he felt in his gut that he already knew the answer, but he had to ask, regardless. “Are the fellas.. are they all gone?” Steve had winced sadly in response. “They made it home, though. Wives, kids, grandkids,” he’d assured. That, at least, mitigated some of the hurt.  _

_ Good— that was good. They were good men. They deserved a restful ending to their stories. Bucky remembered being quiet, trying to collect his thoughts enough to organize a sentence, though nothing seemed right. Misty eyed, he was grateful for the consoling weight of Steve’s hesitant hand on his shoulder. He let the tears run; didn’t wipe them away. He’d at least had the comfort of Steve’s presence — he was more than aware Steve had done all his grieving alone. _ )

The worst lesson Bucky had learned in the war was how devastatingly fragile it was to be human. Life was cruel and death was random — a matter of sorry happenstance, balanced on the head of a pin. No meaning, no divine purpose; only pain. Still, he’d never found himself capable of accepting that the last time was the  _ last time  _ — always assumed there would be one more night around the fire, one more laugh, one more victory drink. At the very least he’d hoped he would have better prepared — would have had a second longer — to say goodbye.

Quietly, from behind him, came Natasha’s instructions to adjust their course to the left, followed by another reminder to cover their tracks and a complaint that Sam and Steve weren’t moving  _ soundlessly  _ enough.

After a few miles, past blocked utility roads and “private property” signs, the team was out quite a distance from the main road. Closer to the heart of the forest, where an unsuspecting hiker wouldn’t venture into mistakenly, lay a steep drop to a tree-dense valley. The ground was beginning to slope in front of them even where they stood, and Steve could feel the shift with each step of his booted feet.

Holding out a hand, Natasha gestured to stop and pointed to their right. From their elevated vantage point, Steve could see down into the valley. Sam whistled low in response. And maybe a part of Steve had been holding out hope that they’d gotten it wrong and the building no longer existed. But he should be so lucky. Here it was. An industrial complex — lifeless gray brick and razor wire fences stretched out below them and bit into the land like a tick. Loading docks off to the side had their metal mouths drawn shut and darkened windows yawned like open graves, but Steve knew better than to believe the place was deserted. This land had never known peace.

Seeing the resignation, the fatigue, in Bucky’s expression — the kind that had little to do with being  _ tired _ — Steve felt like his chest was concaving. Hellfire rose up between the cracks. Steve clenched and relaxed his hand around the strap of his shield.  _ This _ was why he had to do this — why Steve didn't have any qualms with the things they’d done to get there; all his transgressions. Blood would have blood. 

(And Steve had always been better at asking forgiveness than permission, though now, he was more than happy to go without either.) 

Beyond the building, at the bottom of the valley; a long way down, there was a small body of stagnant water. Opposed to something occurring naturally, the lake looked man-made — it didn’t look  _ right;  _ murky brown and desolate. No wildlife in the surrounding area alerted to their presence.

On more than one occasion, Steve had fashioned himself a grave out of water. More than  _ once _ , he’d planned for it to be his final resting place — the tide could pull him down, the banks of the Potomac could have him. And looking at Bucky's eyes now, was it any wonder he’d picked an ocean for his sepulcher? Why he’d been so comforted in the color of the waves? The perfect place to die.

The lake in the distance looked on ominously and Steve vowed to stay clear of its depths. Dead silence in the forest — animal intuition that something was wrong.

The plan went as follows: after a few hours of rest and reconnaissance, they would split up and clear the field — establish a perimeter. No civilian casualties. Under cover of the woods and shadow, there was no room for mistakes. This was the eye of the storm, and the next wall was about to make landfall. 

Steve braced for offense — Hydra had  _ more _ than likely planned for their eventual arrival. They were playing the home team. Come vesperal darkness, they would break in. Natasha would go first, slipping in unnoticed and deactivating the alarm system — easy enough, nothing she hadn’t done successfully a thousand times before. Where Steve and Sam thought like soldiers, Natasha thought like a spy. (Steve had learned  _ so  _ much from her.) 

Once in, Sam would take out the control center — Steve would’ve suggested backup but he knew Sam didn’t  _ need _ assistance — he was  _ that  _ impressive. It was his cool headed confidence that made Steve glad to have him leading this mission. (Not to mention how skilled he was with field medicine.) 

Bucky would take the basement — he had files to steal. Dragging the metaphorical lake — everything to the surface to prove how  _ deep _ it went. And Nat and Bucky could be  _ undetectable  _ when they needed to. They were lethal. They were the coup de grace. They would be okay. 

(Steve really couldn’t have asked for a better team.)

After they had access to what they needed, they’d ensure the building came down quickly, efficiently. Nothing in that evil place could remain. Martyring themselves wouldn’t make a difference — getting  _ out  _ was  _ vital.  _ (Even if nothing  _ else  _ was necessarily intended to.) Otherwise, the whole damn thing would fall apart. 

Making camp when the light was tinged gold and peach, Steve was reminded of the old mariner’s adage— ‘ _ red sky at night, sailors’ delight’ _ . Looking up past the tops of trees he wished he knew what  _ pink  _ was supposed to mean. Covert — no fire for risk of discovery, no comfort, no speaking aside from whispers. They moved like vapor between the trees — like they were never there at all. 

Natasha sent an encrypted message to Clint — the only other person she could be  _ sure  _ was on their side

— asking if he had any eyes on Tony. ( _ Old school _ spy shit. Undetectable.) He hadn’t been privy to any knowledge — Stark was suspicious of him. Mouthing a curse at her phone — she took her binoculars out to watch for any movement below.

Steve was starting to hate this place. Even the ground here didn’t  _ smell  _ the way earth should. It smelled  _ metallic _ and  _ poisoned. _ Steve crouched next to Nat in the foliage to get another look at the compound. When there was no movement, he watched Bucky’s face instead — eyes so wide and Sinatra-blue.

He watched Bucky drop his pack next to him; watched him settle with his back against a tree; watched him pull his knees up to his chin. Running his hands over his thighs, Steve glanced back out over the horizon. He was so  _ tired  _ of living life down to the wire — earning and re-earning every beat of his heart. He supposed he wasn’t even a  _ good  _ soldier — the  _ wise  _ warrior  _ avoids _ the battle, but Steve couldn’t seem to stop himself from diving in headfirst. Seeing men ravaged by war, seeing them come home like ghosts should have been deterrent enough. He remembered days where Bucky used to look like he wanted nothing more than to block his own shots. (Steve had seen that on the helicarrier, too.) The best soldier Steve knew hated the fight.

In the graying twilight, Bucky offered to take first watch, wary of any approach, long limbs still tucked uncomfortably to his chest. Albeit, no one was really planning on letting their guard down entirely _.  _ Sam and Nat spoke to each other in hushed voices about a vehicle approaching the compound below, disappearing into some kind of service entrance. 

Bucky took it as a testament to his trust that Steve sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder — that Steve was sporadically taken by sleep. Skin like Irish cream in the half light — like milk and honey — Steve’s face was toward him. Clean shaven like this, he looked every bit like America’s darling; like the golden-hearted poster boy for honesty and courage. That face could start and end wars.

Chin tucked down and arms crossed over his chest, Steve’s shield was stuck in the ground beside him. If he leaned any further, his head would be on Bucky’s shoulder. Steve was grinding his teeth again — tense even at rest — Bucky supposed it was a hard habit to kick. He reached over and gave Steve’s bicep a soft squeeze — to soothe him even in unconsciousness.

If — and that was a heavy  _ if  _ — they came out of this alright, Bucky wanted to go somewhere like they had before. An apartment, just them. He missed the days at the Tower, though the logical part of him knew it never could have lasted. But maybe they could have something like that again. 

Maybe they could have a tiny place; Steve drawing by the window and coffee in the mornings. They could have records and books and warm baths with bubbles. They could make pancakes and watch Sci-fi movies. A world they’d built up just for themselves — each day a gift; a new wonderful memory Bucky could gingerly fold up and tuck away for safekeeping. Even this, precarious as the circumstance was, felt like something he wanted to keep forever. He liked this — the woods, the way the foliage seemed to open up to hide them. He liked the smell of sap; of pine — even if there was something underneath it; even if the density of the forest made him feel  _ small _ .  _ Yes,  _ Bucky had the city in his heart, but something about the outdoors felt like companionship.

In the staredown between the sun and the moon, Bucky strained his ears. He should have heard deer moving in between the trees or rodents scampering through the underbrush. Instead there was nothing but the caw of a magpie. Just  _ one _ magpie; one for sorrow. Bucky remembered missions with the Commandos — Falsworth used to say a rhyme about magpies.

_ ‘One for sorrow _

_ Two for mirth _

_ Three for a funeral  _

_ Four for a birth _

_ Five for heaven  _

_ Six for hell _

_ Seven beware it’s the devil himself’ _

Apart from the furtive rite with the dog tags — the talisman to safeguard him — Bucky had never considered himself terribly superstitious about mundane things. Black cats didn’t bother him, he wouldn’t veer to avoid cracks in the road. However, hearing the magpie’s screech was always just north of unsettling. He had to wonder if now, the lone bird was a bad omen. Could it really hold their fate strung up in the balance between its talons? Had it come all this way just to tell him; to warn them? Looking up, Bucky wished he had a better view of the sky. Maybe the answers would be there. 

His hands were cold, even though the air was sticky. With the weight of Steve's head on his shoulder, he held eye contact with the magpie. Well aware of how ridiculous it was, Bucky willed it to assure him. ‘ _ Make a noise _ .’ Bucky pleaded wordlessly.  _ ‘Caw if we’re gonna be okay _ .’ Holding his breath for a few moments, ‘ _ Do something.’  _ But the bird flew from its perch, disappearing from view through the trees. Maybe it had gotten spooked — maybe it’d sensed a  _ predator _ nearby. It was stupid. It was stupid — it was just a children’s song, Bucky rationalized with himself.

Falsworth may have believed in that shit, but Bucky didn’t have to let himself get carried away. (Bucky missed him, though. He did.) 

Steve sighed in his sleep, and Bucky rested his cheek against Steve’s hair. If he squinted, it was 1944. If he squinted, it was easy enough to pretend that nothing had changed.

_ He remembered one night around the campfire when he was buzzed. Both from drinking on an empty stomach (his portion of standard government issued brandy as well as Steve’s) and from adrenaline. High off the fight, he was feeling outside of himself, bigger, bolder, incendiary. He was warm, despite the chill in the air. He was warm because he and Steve were sitting on the ground by the fire, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. In his youth, Bucky had worried he’d be like his father when he was drunk — he wasn’t. He was soft and docile and  _ **_putty_ ** _ in Steve's hands. He’d never so much as raised his voice.  _

_ And no, they really shouldn’t have been that close. He really shouldn’t have acted drunker than he was in an elaborate excuse to touch Steve's skin. He shouldn’t have lifted Steve’s chin with his index and middle finger just to grin at him; just so Steve would look at his face and would know he was smiling. Bucky shouldn’t have pressed his head to Steve’s shoulder as he told a story to the Howlies. (Yes, they were drinking, but not enough to not  _ **_remember_ ** _.) And he definitely shouldn’t have leaned up to speak against Steve’s ear. (Force of habit, of course — Steve used to be hard of hearing.)  _

_ He couldn’t tell if the red in Steve’s cheeks was due to the firelight, or the wicked wind that cut through the bombed out ruins they’d made their camp in, or the way Dernier was tipsy and singing under his breath — or something else.  _

_ ‘J'attendrai, _

_ Le jour et la nuit _

_ J'attendrai, toujours.’ _

_ Bucky didn’t know a lot of French — but he thought that sounded like something about forever. (Figured it must have been about a dame.) _

_ ‘Le temps passe et court.’ _

_ Bucky remembered the other men being immersed in their own conversations when Steve slipped a hand to the small of his back, to his hip and let it linger there. The darkness was a trusted accomplice — a mute witness to their indiscretions. _

_ “Wish I could still get drunk,” Steve remarked; low, just for Bucky to hear.  _

_ “No shit,” Bucky laughed. “Miss ya getting drunk. You were a lot of fun.” Drunk Bucky and drunk Steve would dance in the kitchen; would sing off key and wouldn't be so worried about keeping the distance between them. Steve used to be so  _ **_poetic_ ** _ when he’d been drinking — less self conscious. He’d have one too many and talk for hours about the universe in a way that left Bucky picturing the cosmos laid out at his feet. Like he could crack a door and let in the Milky Way.  _

_ “Am I not still fun?” Steve asked, mock-offended, giving Bucky’s hip a pinch.  _

_ Bucky scrunched up his nose at that. “Everyone thinks you’re such a goodie two-shoes. Dunno where they got that impression. Breakin’ laws is your middle name. Steven ‘breakin’ laws’ Rogers. Steven ‘disobeyin’ direct orders’ Rogers. Steven ‘lyin’ on enlistment forms’ Rogers,” Bucky was babbling. He knew. He couldn’t stop himself from talking. His train of thought had departed without him. Or maybe it was screeching to a halt, now, because Steve laughed and ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip and suddenly Bucky couldn’t get his own mouth to make any more words.  _

_ Steve rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay, I get it.” _

_ “I could go on,” Bucky commented. _

_ “I know ya could.” _

_ Trading glances in the low light, oh, Bucky had forgotten how different this felt. To be tucked under Steve’s strong arm — warm and protected — was new, but he never felt like a stranger. It was like Bucky had known this body his whole life — because it was  _ **_Steve_ ** _. Like he’d been waiting to come home to it. Like the space under Steve’s chin; the space against his side had been wistfully carved out just for him.  _

_ (He knew he was being stupid and dramatic. But he’d love Steve the same if he changed back tomorrow. He knew that for certain, too.)  _

_ The other men went off to sleep, taking shelter in the skeleton of the bombed-out building. Steve offered to keep watch and Bucky stayed up with him — the last two around the fire as usual. (Bucky remembered stealing any moment alone with Steve he could — clinging onto them with desperate hands before they could dance away like cigarette smoke.)  _

_ “You’re sweet when you’re drunk, by the way. Always been. Love when ya get like this,” a tiny smile played on Steve’s lips.  _

_ Rolling his eyes, turning Steve’s palm over in his hand, Bucky traced his lifeline in the crackling light. The lines Bucky’d memorized in their youth were the same, but Steve’s hands were just slightly bigger than his now. His skin was smoother, too. Artists’ callouses from holding a pencil too tightly, the scar on his knuckle from a fistfight were all gone. _

_ Bucky's own hands were still rough from dockwork; rough from winter. (He didn’t feel worthy enough to hold him.) Very aware of how dirty his face was; of the cut on his eyebrow, the sweat — how  _ **_inadequate_ ** _ he was — he set Steve’s hand down. It wasn’t like Steve wasn’t dirty — they’d crawled through the mud to get there. He just seemed to wear it better.  _

_ Bucky’s inferiority complex didn’t stop this moment from feeling clandestine and secret; didn’t stop him from breathing, “do you miss home?” The fire popped loudly, and Bucky flinched. In a way that felt like, ‘be still, I’m here,’ Steve rubbed slow circles into his back. He relaxed into the touch — selfishly allowed himself that luxury. Steve was a city boy through and through — Bucky suspected he missed normalcy; missed the way buildings enveloped them in anonymity; the way familiar streets of their childhood wove together like a tapestry. Steve stared, contemplative, into the fire as flickering shadows cast over his face. _

_ “No. I miss our —,” he started the sentence over, finding Bucky’s hand once more. “I miss havin’ a bed. Don’t think I’m missin’ New York so much, now.” That’s what he said, but Bucky thought the diction sounded more like ‘won't let you drift too far from me again.’ _

_ Bucky wasn’t naïve. He knew things couldn’t be like they were at home — not completely. So they’d speak in subtext and tiptoe around hazy boundary lines. But he wondered if Steve wanted it the way he wanted it. Bucky needed to know; because he had seen the way Peggy looked at Steve. He needed to  _ **_know_ ** _ if Steve was aware of the weight of his words. (Because they felt like honey and babydoll and sunshine.) But he didn’t know how to  _ **_ask_ ** _ , and last time they’d been in a dugout, Steve’s hand on his waist had slipped lower than he was used to. That wasn’t nothing — that couldn’t mean nothing. Bucky shivered. _

_ “Are ya cold?” Steve was already rubbing his arm, aiming to keep him warm. (He was good at keeping Bucky warm.) Atlas himself with the world on his shoulders was asking  _ **_Bucky_ ** _ if he was okay — it was almost humorous.  _

_ “Don’t have to treat me like glass, Stevie,” Bucky smiled, but it stopped short of his eyes.  _

_ “Well it ain’t like you’ve ever been great at askin’ for help,” Steve said. That was rich, coming from him. “Promise you’ll.. I dunno. Let me know if ya need anything.” _

_ “Yes, Captain,” Bucky gave him a lazy salute. It was meant to be a joke, but it fell heavy. He knew as much when he heard Steve's breath catch. Bucky swallowed, looking up at Steve, reverential. He knew Steve didn’t take the Captain thing as gospel— often deferred to the judgement of the more experienced men on the team. After all, he hadn’t actually been battle tested until recently in the grand scheme of things. Steve sometimes even joked that, for all intents and purposes, Bucky outranked him. (He was never  _ **_Cap_ ** _ to Bucky. He was Steve.) _

_ But the way Steve was staring at him had Bucky considering calling him ‘Captain’ more often. Maybe just between them; maybe when he wanted Steve to get that look in his eyes. Bucky’s lips parted — only just — moved almost involuntarily like he could concentrate hard enough and feel Steve's mouth. And what had happened to that quick-wit boy with nothing to lose? Now, of course, Bucky had  _ **_everything_ ** _ to lose and he couldn’t have that shit on his conscience. “That dame in town seemed to like ya.” _

_ “Buck,” Steve murmured, almost cautioning, and curled his hand tighter around Bucky’s. _

_ “Think she wanted to spend the night with ya — probably wouldn’t even have charged —,” She  _ **_was_ ** _ pretty and none of the men had seen a woman in so long. The last time they’d passed through a populated town, probably a week prior — time was funny — Bucky couldn’t say he hadn’t noticed the way the barmaids looked at Steve. (He couldn’t blame them, either.) _

_ “Wasn’t interested.”  _

_ “Why?” Bucky’s lip curled up on its own volition, in response to Steve’s smile like a hollow-point. (It struck Bucky square in the chest — he’d never had a chance.) _

_ “You  _ **_know_ ** _ why,” Steve said. _

_ “I wanna hear you say it,” Bucky was more serious now — feigned intoxication immediately forsaken when he worried he’d overstepped. Bucky didn’t know if it was his place to mention — if he was pushing his luck. Doubt written on his face, he frowned and reconsidered his words. _

_ (Steve caught his cheek before he could start hemorrhaging apologies; kissed the corner of his mouth.) _

_ So Bucky doubled down. “Say it,” A thrill ran through him — down to the tips of his toes and fingers.  _

_ “‘m  _ **_with_ ** _ you. You know I am, jerk. Just you,” Steve affirmed. _

_ Heart in his throat, Bucky nodded, slipped his arm around Steve’s shoulders and pressed his forehead to Steve’s temple. It wasn’t all in his head — it was every bit as real as he’d wished and prayed. _

_ They’d just been kids with smart mouths and growing pains. Bucky remembered when they’d skin knees and lose teeth; when war was only a game they’d play with neighborhood children in the street of Steve’s tenement. Bucky wished childhood had lasted longer — that they hadn’t had to grow up so fast. He wished they’d had more  _ **_time_ ** _. He wished he’d had a way of knowing he was in his golden days before he’d left them. So bittersweet a thought; it sobered him right up. _

_ Bucky remembered keeping second watch. Steve had gone to sleep — after first claiming he didn’t mind pulling a double; after urging Bucky to rest instead. (Bucky shooed him off, insistent. Steve didn’t need to know he was exhausted.) _

_ Alone, Bucky let himself imagine. After the war was over — after they went home safe and sound — he intended to get Steve a ring. He knew they couldn’t get  _ **_married_ ** _ , but he could do that much. He could give Steve another piece of himself to wear on a chain around his neck — to keep close to his heart. There was a very real possibility that Steve would say no, but Bucky knew if it came to rejection, at least he’d be let down gently. Steve wouldn’t be cruel or angry. Yes, it would shatter his fucking heart, but as long as Steve was happy Bucky could handle it. More apprehensively, Bucky allowed himself to imagine what would happen if he lucked out and Steve  _ **_accepted_ ** _ his gesture — his invitation of forever. He imagined Steve’s bottled-lightning smile. He imagined Steve’s feather-light kisses. He imagined making love in  _ **_their_ ** _ bed.  _

_ Bucky had to stop himself before he got too carried away. _

_ “I love him. That’s all there is,” Bucky whispered into the night; whispered to no one. He needed to know how the words would feel on his tongue. “That’s all there is.” _

_ * _

Bucky was confident in his ability to hear anything approaching far before it arrived. They had an overwatch position — he wasn’t  _ nervous  _ — but he needed something to do with his hands. (Hands that still looked rough. Steve had gotten rid of his pre-serum scars — started over with new ones. Bucky guessed he was different.) Sharpening his knife, slow and methodical, he was comforted by the scrape of metal; the reliable weight of a weapon in his hand. He watched Natasha taking mental notes on the positions of security in the valley below. It was different being a pack animal again — Sam had offered to switch out with him on sentry duty, but Bucky didn’t want the relief.

Steve woke with a start, picking his head up off Bucky’s shoulder as inky darkness settled over the trees. They had maybe a half hour or so before they had to move — Bucky didn’t want to look at the time. Rummaging through the supplies, Steve offered him water out of a canteen, which he accepted. He held out a granola bar next. Bucky looked at it, but didn’t make a move to take it. A force of habit; a remnant of the feeling he’d had decades ago when he’d insisted on giving up rations to Steve — fought him on it when he disagreed — when Steve needed it more than him. 

“Eat,” Steve shook the packet a little, urging him to take it, looking at him with all that earnesty. (Bucky guessed he would have done whatever Steve had asked.)

“Remember the constellations Stevie? I taught ‘em to ya,” Bucky worried the packet between his fingers, let his head fall back against the bark of the tree.

“Course I do,” Steve whispered back, tipped his head up, squinting between the treetops at the summer sky. “Hercules, right there.” He couldn’t make out the whole thing through the trees, but he was oriented enough with the darkness to point out the approximate location. Lines of moonlight cut through branches, the buildings below were holding their breath.

A rustling — Steve saw the way Bucky's eyes flicked toward the sound, but it was only Sam turning, waking up from a brief nap, moving to the overlook to confer with Natasha. “Ya know the story of Hercules— the twelve labors.” Not a question. He knew Bucky was, in fact, aware of the story. He’d taught it to Steve when they were children; when monsters were only make-believe. It was whispered under the covers in the darkness of Steve’s room or up on the fire-escape.

“Killed the Hydra. Cut off each head. Cauterized the wounds so nothing could grow back,” Bucky answered, breaking off pieces of the protein bar — one for him one for Steve. Steve meant the comparison to be reassuring — Bucky didn’t mention that Hercules ended in tragedy.

“When they dragged me off the mountain,” Bucky started after swallowing a bite and brushing crumbs off his thigh, “they’d strap me into a chair. They usedta tell me things about you. To taunt me — to hurt me. Said ya gave me up — traded my life for yours. Don’t look like that, Stevie, I know ya didn’t. I know. I never believed ‘em. Always knew they were lyin’. Don’t say anything. My point is, I  _ trust _ you to have my back. Hope ya still trust me.”

Steve squeezed his knee. “I do.”

*

All too soon, Natasha was unholstering her gun, reminding them it was time to go. “Should only take me five minutes. Be ready to follow.”

(It took her three and a half.)

Once she was on the inside, Bucky heard her laughter in his earpiece. “First thing when you walk in, fellas, find a way out.”

“I know,” Bucky scoffed. “I taught  _ you  _ that,  _ Nathashenka _ .” He stared with contempt down the hill. There he was again — following  _ Captain America  _ into the jaws of death. (He’d still go gladly.) 

Bucky thought briefly about the capture; wrought in the shame of it. Before he had been broken to forge something  _ worse.  _ He thought about Steve, when he had come into his life so brilliant and bright. Lightning striking the same place twice; resplendent — he’d had him in wonderful, ephemeral flickers. Bucky had seen this story before. He didn’t particularly like the ending. (Maybe there was something to be said about the way ghost stories and love stories read the same.)

“Perimeter clear,” Steve said from the far side of the compound, shaking the smoke out of Bucky’s head — the signal he’d needed to move. 

Bucky was  _ good _ at being unperceived — at making himself invisible. He didn’t feel vulnerable on his own. Once he’d slipped into the building through a loading dock, it didn’t take him long to re-familiarize himself with the winding hallways. The layout, minus a few small changes, was what Bucky had mapped out for the team.  _ Too  _ acquainted with these rooms, Bucky mumbled under his breath “I fuckin’ hate it here.” Skin  _ itching,  _ his hair stood up on the back of his neck. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself present. 

If he let himself  _ drift  _ he might not come back — not here where everything smelled like bleach and torment.

Bucky didn’t encounter anyone as he cleared the path to the lowest level, where he knew the vault would be. Steve and Sam would swipe the master key — the one to the control room. Nat would hack the system, steal data, cut the power. Bucky would get the files. Then the whole building would come down. Easy.

*

“Checkpoint two clear,” Natasha confirmed.

“Sam, what’s your status?” Steve asked from a dimly lit stairwell, taking steps two at a time. 

“I’m in position. Have I mentioned I hate these guys?”

“Once or twice,” Steve pushed open the door in front of him just a crack to check if the coast was clear. It was. Two scientists in white coats had just rounded the opposite corner. 

“The room in front of you has a keypad, Steve, the code is 33014.” Natasha had clearly found the security cameras. 

Typing in the code, the heavy metal door slid open in front of him. He stepped into the room and in one motion, sent his shield flying at the only other occupant, rendering them unconscious. Quick, efficient. 

“He’s on his way in,” Natasha assured. 

Shifting on his feet, Steve stood waiting, casually, nonchalantly in front of the door for the carrier of the master key. Like a cat watching a mousetrap, his muscles tensed. Not thirty seconds later, a short, bald man in an expensive suit looked shocked staring back at him. His two armed bodyguards raised their guns with similar disbelief on their faces, but they knew better than to fire directly at Steve's shield. (Steve didn’t really want this to end in a firefight. But it always ended in a firefight.)

The door slid shut heavily behind them— heavy conclusiveness. “Captain America?”

Steve could have rolled his eyes. A few steps to the right, a few steps back and he’d coaxed the men further into the room — just below the third window.

“I'm not the guy you should be worried about,” Steve shrugged. “I’m just the distraction.” Steve took a few hurried steps back and protected his face with his shield in time for Sam to burst through the window, raining down shards of glass. A flurry of bullets all missed their mark. Swooping low, Sam took all three men out at once. He retracted his wings and fistbumped Steve as he passed.

“That one felt good.”

Steve chuckled in agreement, taking the Hydra operative’s pass card and pulling him abruptly to his feet. They needed the key as well as a retinal scan to gain access to the control room. Sam helped him drag the man up the flight of stairs.

“You… you’ll..” he sputtered, dazed.

“We’ll what? We’ll pay for this?” Sam rolled his eyes. I don’t wanna  _ hear  _ from the guy that orchestrated genetic recombination experiments on  _ children _ .”

(That particular file had made Steve feel physically ill. He didn’t understand how people could  _ do  _ shit like that and _ sleep at night. _ ) 

Up another flight of stairs, down an empty corridor to the right. Outside of the control room, Sam pushed the man’s face up to the scanner and the door clicked open. Steve knew they didn’t have the luxury of time now — they’d given themselves away. Now was the moment for offensive maneuvers. 

“Widow, what’s your status?” Steve asked. 

“On my way to you. Gimme a minute,” Natasha breezed around the corner thirty seconds later, wiping blood off her face with the back of her hand. It seemed to be matted in her hair, but she didn’t skip a beat. Steve and Sam looked alarmed.

“It’s fine,” Nat smiled, “it’s not mine.” She tossed her braid over her shoulder and immediately made her way to the computers. Her fingers flew expertly over the keyboard.

“I don’t say this lightly. She scares the shit out of me,” Sam muttered under his breath. Steve thought he caught Natasha’s smirk. Smiling, he shook his head because, yeah — she scared the shit out of him too. 

“This is the most fun I’ve had in weeks,” Natasha said cheerfully, as if to reiterate Sam’s point.

As he and Sam watched the door, Steve asked “Buck, what’s your status?”

Bucky’s voice was low and uneasy. Steve could hear the dread in it. “There’s a lotta fucked up shit down here.. but I’m in the right place.”

“You make damn sure they don’t follow you up,” Sam said.

“Copy,” Bucky replied.

“Twenty minutes exactly ‘til this place comes down. Stay close,” Natasha had finished uploading the contents of their hard drive. It was enough time to clear an exit and make it back up the hill. 

“Nat, they’re down the hallway,” Sam informed, peeking around the corner. “Two teams of five on either side. Take the right, Steve, I’ll take the left.”

Steve nodded, tightening the strap of his shield.

“Once I cut the power,” Natasha explained, “you’ll have ten seconds of complete darkness until the emergency lights kick in. Three.. two.. now.”

Steve assumed one of her stingers had short circuited the mainframe. In pitch blackness, he veered right colliding shield- first into a formation of men. Disgruntled cries and blind shots rang out around them. He and Sam were doing so well at first — they had it under control. Natasha slipped out of the fight toward the basement unseen in the allotted time. Red lights flashed, bathing the scene in a shocking crimson. 

“Rogers, your 6,” Sam called. Steve sent his shield flying directly into the agent behind him. Sam immediately scooped up his shield, cracked it against a skull, and threw it down the long hallway back to Steve in a fluid motion. 

Still engaged in a fight, Steve caught the shield and kicked another agent’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the linoleum floor. Sam was doing fine at the opposite end of the hallway.  _ Everything _ was fine, until Steve found himself rounding the corner — until the exit behind him was sealed off abruptly. A smoke bomb detonated, further obscuring his vision. He choked and coughed. Something hit him —hard— in the back of the head. If his uniform didn’t come with a  _ helmet _ , that would have drawn blood.

Without much warning, a high pitched whistle rang in his ears. Hissing a surprised breath, Steve felt for his earpiece — maybe the tech was malfunctioning. But it became clear that the sound was permeating the air around him. He swung at the last agent still standing in front of him, baring his teeth and ignoring the pain. “Sam, do you hear that?” Steve muttered. 

“Negative.”

Another blow and he’d knocked the agent out cold. “Nat?” He ground his teeth.

“I don’t hear anything.”

The painful frequency seemed to be increasing, and if neither Nat or Sam could hear it — maybe it was something like a  _ dog whistle _ for enhanced humans? Steve’s head felt like it was splitting open — he was dizzy. And he was separated from his team. 

“Bucky?”

Something unintelligible. 

“Bucky?” Steve tried again.

No answer.

And if Steve was feeling murderous before, that was absolutely nothing compared to how he felt now.

This felt like judgement day. It was like the trumpets were sounding. There was less than fifteen minutes on the clock. Steve pushed on down the stairs until his vision was going blurry — until he was losing light. It happened far faster than he thought it should have. He had the wherewithal to alert Sam to his location, though the door was shut and most likely locked. He heard Sam tell Natasha to run interference. He heard commotion in the hallway. And the  _ last  _ thing he heard before hitting the landing of the stairwell was Bucky's distressed voice. 

(And he remembered thinking the blood was kind of  _ pretty _ the way it caught the light. On the floor it was fractured and shining like stained glass.)

*

When Bucky heard the noise, it almost brought him to his knees. He very nearly brought down a box of files on top of himself. He didn't, though — he struggled stubbornly back to his feet. If Steve was saying his name that way in his earpiece, then he must hear it too. It hurt. Everything hurt. But he could compartmentalize the pain, like looking down at himself from outside his body. He was good at that. If he tucked it away, if he shut off his brain, it was almost like he wasn’t feeling a thing. 

He was foggy as he found the documents he needed and tucked them safely away. He was  _ hazy _ when a team of men burst through the door with guns pointed at him. He couldn’t get his eyes to focus. It all happened so quickly, so matter-of-factly. Head pounding, Bucky didn’t know if he was going to  _ die _ or if they were going to see how difficult it would be to hit the reset button on his programming. They hadn’t shot him yet, so probably the latter. 

But he wasn’t going without a fight.

Six men, six guns, a blocked exit. If they  _ did  _ want him alive, they wouldn’t shoot to kill. They stepped closer. Bucky would take that chance, unsteady as he was. 

“Steve,” he said. Just a syllable — an apology. Under flashing, violent red, Bucky unsheathed his knife and gave them hell until his vision went black. 

*

When he came to, he was on his knees with his arms bound behind his back — still in the vault. At some point the noise must have stopped. He couldn’t have been out for more than a few minutes. Blood was dripping into his eyes from the butt of a pistol against his skull. They must have injected him with something — his body was too heavy. The agent in front of him was shouting now-useless trigger words in his face but all they did was hurt his still-ringing ears. 

He heard Natasha say “fifteen minutes.” He heard Sam ask, “Does anyone have eyes on Cap?”

Bucky looked up and made eye contact with the man shouting at him, trying to convey as much spite as he could manage. He caught a flicker of fear. If there was a chance he’d make it to an exit — that he’d make it to Steve — Bucky did the only thing he  _ could _ do. He made his face blank. He did his best to look subservient, fixed his eyes straight ahead as if this wasn’t his worst  _ fucking  _ nightmare. As if his gut wasn’t twisting with nausea. (As if he wasn’t going to fight for control wherever he could get it.) His body curled forward, head bowed, protecting itself; bracing itself for the spirit to be beaten out of him. A backhand cracked across his cheek — more trigger words. He needed this to look real. He was lightheaded when another blow came, then another and another.

_ “Ya gotov otvechat.”  _ Ready to comply.

More pain. 

*

Steve was so woozy, he almost laughed. Everything was still gray and obscure, but at least that godforsaken noise had stopped. Fragments of thoughts floated around his head, distracting and disconnected from anything consequential. Why hadn’t they killed him yet? Blood on his tongue — he’d split his lip. His shoulder stung. And then he slipped out of consciousness briefly again. 

_ Steve remembered smoky incense; the echo of a church. He remembered kneeling, eyes upturned, hands clasped, like a Eucharist, a communion, but he was alone. ‘I bow my head before you in humility.’ He was cold and it was dark. This wasn’t right. Steve felt strange— like he didn’t belong on hallowed ground. _

_ He turned his head, Bucky was behind him, in front of the altar. He was young, baby-faced, maybe 19. He was crying — why was he crying? This wasn’t  _ **_right_ ** _. He’d only seen Bucky cry like that when he had that one bad bout of rheumatic fever — the one that almost got him. That was so long ago now. Bucky looked .. he looked like that song he liked. ‘Doesn’t look a thing like Jesus, but he talks like a gentleman, like you imagined when you were young.’ Why couldn’t Steve remember the next line? Steve didn’t ever want to see those eyes so sad. Broken to be made whole.  _

_ It was getting too dark and Steve couldn’t see him anymore. (He couldn’t see much of anything anymore.) _

_ “Wake up.” _

_ Steve couldn’t stand — couldn’t find his footing. _

_ He looked back at his hands — stained scarlet; red wine, the blood of Christ, the blood of Steve’s missteps and mistakes. Bucky's blood in the snow.  _

_ His fault. _

_ His Ma’s voice now; “Open your eyes, Steven.” _

He came back to consciousness still on his knees. Chains like rosary beads, like apologies, bound him at the wrists, though his hands were behind him. Awake from the pain, but feeling narrowly less than existent, Steve gritted his teeth. They’d drugged him— they’d given him something. Bucky’s anguished screams echoed down the halls, reverberated and cut Steve like broken glass. The sonance rang in his ears and cleared the rest of the fog from his head. It felt like a lot longer, but Steve had probably only been out for a minute or two.

“Gotta say, I didn’t think you’d go down so easy,” an agent said arrogantly. There were six of them. Steve was cornered, but he  _ wasn’t _ going down easy — he was biding his time until he could get his bearings. He could handle this. 

The Hydra agent was talking about Bucky — taunting and sneering things about the  _ Winter Soldier.  _ Steve didn’t like that. He’d stopped listening — he didn’t  _ like  _ the way they spoke about Bucky; took his name in vain. (How dare they say his name.) It sounded wrong and clumsy. A far-off piece of Steve’s mind urged him to get up. It all sounded like white noise, but he had remembered  _ hearing _ Bucky. So, blinking in the red light, he looked for him — for signs of him in the empty space — the way he used to after the Fall. (There was never anything back then, nothing left behind — every reminder of the absence a dull ache like a phantom limb.) 

“Bring in the Asset.”

Then a door was opening and Bucky was being led into the room. That look — the vacancy in his eyes — startled Steve. The bruises, the blood — Oh,  _ Christ _ , what had they  _ done _ to him?

(The agent was talking to Steve, but he didn't care. He was busy thinking about some kind of barter, some kind of a one-for-one trade — If God were the type to respond to threats and intimidation.) 

The absence of  _ anything  _ on Bucky's face — not the quirk of an eyebrow or clench of his jaw — had Steve resigning himself to his fate. Eyes fixed straight on him, he had Steve’s heart between his teeth. Stepping closer, Bucky looked like the angel of destruction; like a spectre in a dream; like an echo from a different space and time. They’d  _ gotten _ to him, surely. If this wasn’t him — if this indeed wasn’t Bucky at all — Steve was as good as dead. It was like he’d taken a hammer to the chest. 

“Finish him,  _ Soldat _ .” 

One of the men placed the knife into Bucky's hand, clearly  _ confident  _ what they’d done had successfully traded Bucky for the Soldier. (It must have been  _ bad —  _ whatever it was. The thought made Steve sick and angry.) This was a test, he realized. The precautionary guns were trained on  _ Bucky —  _ not him. He knew Bucky was in there somewhere— he knew Bucky would fight as hard as he could. But Steve was worried if he  _ did _ , one of the agents would pull the trigger.

But this was okay — if Bucky's eyes were his last rites. If Bucky’s hands were his funeral toll. Except, no. Steve remembered. This place was going to come down. Natasha was saying “eight minutes.”

He pulled at his restraints.

Then, Bucky snapped, surprising him. Turning to protect his face out of reflex, Steve braced for pain, but none came. 

In a move that had clearly been strategic, Bucky unsheathed a knife with a flair — in the elegant way that had always left Steve captivated below the underlying fear. It was not calculated or pragmatic, however, the way Bucky rounded on his captors. It was something akin to feral. Shots went off. The security — his  _ handlers _ — had panicked. They’d aimed to kill, but a few seconds too slow. (Distantly, in his head, Steve chastised Bucky for taking the risk with all those guns on him.) But another part of Steve was proud that Bucky still had so much resistance in him. 

This  _ rage _ was all Bucky, it was personal. (Albeit uncharacteristic — Bucky was  _ not  _ a violent person; not in the slightest. (Even if Bucky himself would disagree nowadays.) Contrary to belief held by those who didn't really  _ know  _ him, Bucky wasn’t aggressive — he was  _ protection _ in its purest form _ ,  _ he was stone against the battery of waves. Grace under fire. Even in the war he’d been more galant and on the defense. Steve had memorized his movements — the way he used to fight, the tells in his behavior. Easy as breathing. This was him.

Steve strained harder against the cuffs — the magnetic ones Hydra liked to use. The metal shifted; a budge, just slightly, but he could do this. There was a cry of pain — of surprise — from somewhere in the room. Steve pulled and struggled with all the force he could muster, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw ached. The cuffs cracked. On his knees, the momentum unsteadied him. Without taking his eyes off the scene in front of him, he threw a hand out, palm flat on the tiled floor to brace himself. 

Transfixed by the way Bucky moved, Steve hadn’t pinpointed the exact moment the fight had ended. But there was Bucky, standing above the carnage with a bloody knife in his clenched fist and eyes dark as obsidian. A face like pretty thunder — a beautiful, terrifying wave. Then he turned those eyes on Steve, softening. Neither one of them moved for a beat. Bucky almost looked  _ sorry. _

Standing slowly, Steve didn’t know if he was going to feel the bite of metal against his own neck. If his head didn’t feel so heavy, he may have even lifted his chin, offered himself up. His hands weren’t restrained any longer, but he didn’t raise them to protect himself. 

Hating that he had to ask, he asked anyway. Precursive events withstanding. “Which Bucky am I talking to?”

_ “Your  _ Bucky.”

Yes, he definitely looked sorry now. Of course it was him. Of course. What a pair they were. Steve couldn’t lie and Bucky’s survival had, for so many years, hinged on deceit. These agents had never  _ had _ Bucky. Bucky’d had  _ them.  _

Then, time seemed to speed up again — the moment was passing and Steve couldn’t reach out to grab the end of it. He was steadier on his feet when Bucky grabbed the back of his neck and pressed their foreheads together. “You hurt? I’ll cut all their fucking throats.”

He’d only seen Bucky like this twice before. Once when he’d taken fire in the war — Bucky had been livid. And once Steve had gotten just a flash of it in the fight with Stark. He patted Steve down the arms, whether checking for injuries or proving  _ this was real.  _ “Not bad. ‘m fine. We gotta move,” Steve urged them down the hallway, they had no time to waste — they could address their injuries later.

“Anyone on comms? You boys are dawdling. Two minutes,” Nat sounded panicked, hissed profanity under her breath. 

“Took a detour,” Steve commented, breathless as they climbed the stairs. His ribs ached, his head ached. Behind him, covering him, Bucky was steady like the roll of summer thunder — a tempest just below the surface. Hydra knew what weaknesses to exploit. (Bucky was his most obvious one.) Steve anticipated separation could leave them vulnerable — but he never could have expected to be incapacitated that way. They’d never dealt with a sonic weapon like it. 

They were being followed — Steve could hear pounding footsteps on the flights of stairs below them, a door slammed. Between flashes of red, Steve ran like a bat out of hell. 

“60 seconds,” Natasha warned. Steve slammed the stolen key card against the pad in front of the emergency exit and it started to slide open.

Halted on the last step, looking down over the railing at the approaching assailants, Bucky didn’t follow Steve out the door into the courtyard.

Looking around, realizing no one was behind him any longer, Steve’s chest felt tight. “Buck,” Steve urged. “Where did ya go? You were right behind me.”

“I’ll stay back and hold them off,” Bucky’s voice cracked in his earpiece.

“This is a  _ very _ dumb idea,” Steve contradicted. Caught between the devil and the deep blue of Bucky's eyes — Steve was halfway up the hill now, but he paused. 

“They  _ can’t _ follow us out,” Bucky was insistent and still  _ inside _ . “I can  _ do _ this.”

“Buck, it’s not a clean shot to the exit,” he was starting to get desperate. Less than a minute now. “We’ll deal with them later.”

“I’ll deal with them  _ now _ ,” already engaged in the fight, Bucky knew if he let up, there’d be nothing stopping the agents from pouring out the exits. Then the team would never contain it all. Desperate times, desperate measures. “I’ve got it, Stevie.”

“No,  _ asshole _ , get  _ out _ of there,” Steve said firmly. He’d started back, but Natasha grabbed his arm. He wished he could see Bucky. (Logically he knew there was no way he’d get to him in time.)

“Do you fucking  _ trust me  _ or not,” Bucky pressed. 

Hesitation. Thirty seconds. “I  _ promise _ I can make it. Just get clear,” Bucky shouted. 

Steve could overhear the struggle. He did trust Bucky — more than anything — and if he was saying he could do this, Steve  _ had _ to believe him. Bucky was strong, he could handle himself. Just like all those months ago, this was  _ Bucky’s  _ decision — Bucky’s choice to make.

Three seconds.

Steve had made it up the hill — but not  _ really,  _ not completely when Bucky was still at the bottom of it. 

“ _ Please.” _

Two.

One.

Listening to the radio silence after the explosion felt like hearing Bucky die. Untethered like a dead reckoning in an aircraft; lost and adrift, he couldn’t find north. (Couldn’t find his breath either.) Couldn’t differentiate the cardinal directions. (Steve would die on impact this time.) Static and a sense of immediacy. Fire. Oh God, this must have been what Peggy felt in the control room when he had gone down. Deep, sickening dread, straining ears to hear an answer that wouldn’t ever come — this was catastrophic. On the hill staring at the wreckage, Steve was preparing himself to take off to the bottom. 

“Bucky,” less than above a breath; he just mouthed the word.

Natasha placed a hand on his shoulder, his arms dropped to his sides, defeated, not turning to look at her. Holding onto hope, Steve shook his head — Bucky could do this.

“He promised,” Steve couldn’t look away from the fire leaping into the black sky, the charing framework and flames dancing like hungry creatures, licking and clawing and hissing. And Bucky was down there somewhere. 

“Steve,” Nat tried, gently, the way that said  _ ‘don’t do anything rash. He could be — should be — on his way up right now.’ _

“I’m not leaving without him,” Steve said brusquely. No. He’d rather die there. He’d rather burn up in the fallout. (He’d be an afterthought, a footnote in all of this. His name next to Buckys.) Natasha rubbed his back — there was nothing else to say. 

Each second a throb in his iron-heavy heart. 

Weight on the balls of his feet, he was already tensing to charge back into the fire. Best case scenario he found Bucky, worst case he died trying. But he couldn’t  _ not _ try. A moment before he could start forward, Sam nudged his shoulder, pointing to the tree line. 

Maybe St. Jude had interceded — patron of lost causes and desperate cases — because Bucky was painstakingly limping up the hill in the darkness. Bloody, covered in dust and holding his side, like a wounded, lost dog dragging itself all the way back home. All the blood had rushed to Steve’s head, his heart pounded in his ears and he involuntarily dropped his shield at his feet. Letting out a small, choked noise, he moved to loop his arm around Bucky’s waist and help him on shaking legs. 

“I’m —,”

He helped Bucky sit down in the grass. Haggardly, Steve sat with him. 

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Steve pressed his forehead against Bucky’s briefly, then pulled back to look him in the eyes. In the same breath as “you fucking jerk,” Steve asked “how bad are you hurt?”

“‘m okay. I’m alive,” Bucky rasped, sounding like his lungs were filled with smoke. (There was  _ so  _ much smoke. The building below had gone up like kindling.) Draping an arm around Bucky, Steve held him close as they watched the blaze. Relief. Sharp, intense relief. That’s all there was. Third time lucky.

The old Steve wouldn’t have co-signed this course of action, but it was the  _ only _ one. Seeing what Hydra had done to Bucky — to so many others — even this fell short of justice. Though it was almost poetic; Frankenstein’s downfall at the hands of the monster — the wrath of what he’d made. Bucky’s hands were shaking. Blood was matted in his hair, though Steve couldn’t distinguish the source. Steve gave him a once-over, made quiet note of his injuries. Nothing major. They were all in one piece — Natasha and Sam as well. Standing beside them. Safe. Alive.

Steve was looking at Bucky, but Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off the fire, mouthing words Steve couldn’t make out, like he was counting or making a list. With everything gone, they’d salted the earth behind them. It was over. God, it was  _ finally  _ over.

A low rumble of thunder sounded, accompanied by flashes of blue-white lightning in the distance. Clint radioed in a warning about Stark’s approach. “Incoming, Tasha. 5 minutes.”

Handing the files to Natasha, Bucky was thinking about how strange it was — the world was burning; he shouldn’t be so cold. He shouldn’t have had to count backwards by sevens to tether himself. They had made it out. The rest was so unimportant. Coming back to himself, feeling Steve’s arm around him, feeling present again, it was finally hitting him. He was free — as free as when they’d broken his conditioning in Wakanda. Unburdened, liberated. Steve cupped the back of his neck, stroked his thumb against the short hairs there and said into his ear “Come on, Buck. Come on baby. Get up, we have to go. Can you stand?” 

“Yeah, I’m alright.” He didn’t realize until then he was soaked and shivering. He wasn’t sure when the rain had started, but it was steadily increasing in intensity. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay. I’ve been feeling really unmotivated to write recently.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos keep me going xx


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter does contain a very brief mention of self harm, please read with caution

The team scattered, dispersing to different places— more difficult to keep track of that way. Sam was planning on laying low in DC. Natasha took the shield for safe keeping — less obvious that way. She was going somewhere north after the information clearing their names was  _ anonymously  _ provided to the Department of Defense. Plausible deniability was the last part of the plan. They could retrieve their possessions from the house when it was safe to do so — there was no rush. Steve and Bucky made a break for it. Running through the woods, through slippery, uneven terrain and brambles that slashed ribbons into any unfortunate skin uncovered by their uniforms, they reached a bar in a sleepy town meant for passing through. Needing to be a little less  _ recognizable,  _ they hastily shrugged on jackets out of Bucky’s bag, stowing away anything as identifiable as Steve’s helmet.

This wasn’t goodbye — this was only a  _ ‘see you soon _ ’ — though it did have Steve feeling a bit sentimental. “Be safe, I expect you both for Christmas,” he said, hoping someone was still on comms.

Sam’s responding chuckle was warm. “Count on it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Natasha promised. Over the drunken raucous outside the bar, Steve could hear the smile in her voice. “Take care of each other.”

Nervously, Bucky fidgeted with the knife in his hand, looking behind him as Steve hotwired a motorcycle. ( _ Borrowing _ . They were borrowing, Steve insisted. They’d leave it somewhere safe and sound.) The rain eased — only a lazy drizzle now in the flickering light of neon signs.

“Where to, doll?” Steve murmured over the purr of the engine. (Steve would drive all through the night if he had to — to keep that grin on his pretty mouth; to keep him  _ warm _ .)

“Home.” 

On the back of the bike, headed to the heart of the city, Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist and let himself breathe easy again. Relatively empty streets felt like a safety net; buildings towering on either side conspired to hide them. In the roar of the road; between the highway lines with his forehead pressed against the back of Steve’s shoulder, Bucky found the solace that had evaded him for months. If he was holding on too tightly, Steve didn’t complain. 

The sun hadn’t yet risen and there was no moon to speak of. The city was darkened, only lit artificially by streetlights and sporadic windows. Just before dawn, with sirens sounding in the distance, they abandoned the bike. Steve remembered what Nat had taught him — so long ago now — the first rule of going on the run; don’t run. Walk. 

So he and Bucky slowed their pace; meandered down the desolate city streets — rain slicked and shining with the traffic lights reflecting off the asphalt. Steam rose in the summer heat. They didn’t speak. Jacket hoods up and eyes down, they only passed a few other people. No one looked at them twice. He could still smell the smoke on Bucky's clothes; petrichor and gasoline. 

The sirens were getting closer — the sound of tires on wet pavement. A muscle jumped in Bucky’s jaw, but he kept his head down. Steve’s hand hovered near his elbow, but he didn’t touch; not wanting to give anyone a reason to look at them too closely. 

_ ‘Please, don’t turn. Don’t turn. The apartment is only a few blocks away, please,’  _ Steve silently implored. He must have been fresh out of favors, because two police cars skidded down their street. He couldn’t help the sinking dread. 

In the flashing red and blue, Bucky glanced up at him, panicked. Heart thudding in his own ears, Steve thought quickly and looped an arm around his waist, guiding him swiftly sideways into an alley; into the darkness.

They were frozen, staring at each other wide-eyed, circumspect and wary of capture. The sirens drew closer. Bucky’s pulse felt like an  _ almost —  _ the way their  _ lives _ were a series of  _ almosts.  _ (He remembered thinking that to himself once, when he’d been in Hydra’s cage long enough to know Steve wasn’t coming back.  _ ‘We almost made it, Stevie.’) _

Holding his breath, Steve’s face was dirty and rain-streaked. His lip was split, and a cut marred his chin. If they were apprehended, Bucky knew they couldn’t very well claim they’d been minding their own business all night — not beat up like this. The sirens were louder now, and then —  _ passing;  _ fading out. With no space between them, chest to chest, Bucky exhaled and  _ grinned  _ as the police left them unnoticed. The more distance they put between themselves and the wreckage of the night, the more  _ alive  _ Bucky felt. He could’ve shouted from the rooftops, he could’ve  _ sang.  _ The promise of home and safety was within reach. 

Steve smiled back his most honest, eye-crinkling smile and Bucky couldn’t help it anymore. Closing the few inches of height difference between them, he kissed Steve — hungry like the apocalypse. Steve melted into him, strong hands on his waist, holding on for dear life, it seemed. Steve tasted like blood and Bucky was beginning to suspect he himself had a cracked rib or two. But none of that mattered. The world shuttered — broke like a fault line. Leaning his head against the brick wall behind him, Bucky  _ laughed  _ up at the sky above. His hands still cupped Steve’s face— Steve turned his head to kiss Bucky’s palm. Not that he was religious — not that there wasn’t still a road ahead of them — but this moment felt  _ profound  _ in a way he didn’t know how to explain. Stars looked like falling snow out at sea — white on an expanse of blue-black and nothing else. Bucky sent a quiet  _ thank you  _ to whoever might be up there.

*

They  _ did  _ make it to a nondescript apartment in New England — a humble place on the outskirts of Boston. It wasn’t  _ New York —  _ but it would do. It worked well enough for laying low; for keeping Bucky safe somewhere the world couldn’t touch him. Just for a while — just until things died down and they could assess the outcome. They could retrieve their things soon, they could visit the beach like Bucky had been wanting to, they could breathe.

Stumbling through the door, Steve let out a breath he’d been holding for what felt like hours, days, months, even. Neither one of them turned the lights on. The haze of early morning under drawn curtains felt safer. The only noises were a dripping kitchen sink and a ticking clock; their hearts. This place had been prepared for the inevitability of their arrival — because they’d always needed an escape hatch and Fury had been kind enough, long ago, to ensure they had one. Having been set up just before they’d moved Bucky into the Tower, it was a lifeline for when they’d find themselves unwelcome. The apartment had kitchen appliances, a radio, some furniture, a TV and not much else — the bare bones of an unlived-in space. Just them and the essentials. That felt familiar. That felt like home. 

A few boxes of clothing, kitchenware and other miscellaneous things sat in the entryway. Steve had only made the trip to the apartment  _ once  _ to drop them off. (Unpacking would make it  _ real _ , and the old him had hoped they wouldn’t ever have to disappear like this.)

Dropping his bag at the door and shrugging off his rain-soaked jacket, Bucky said, tonelessly, “I … want to be clean.”

Steve knew what he  _ meant _ the same way he knew this wasn’t a feeling soap could fix. Nevertheless, he followed Bucky to the bathroom to find towels. Woefully, Steve noticed the way Bucky avoided looking at himself in the mirror — couldn’t meet his own eyes in the glass. 

Steve understood. This experience had been equal parts harrowing and therapeutic — for Bucky more so than himself. Steve knew tonight was a reminder of countless others. He knew there were places in Bucky’s psyche where the light couldn’t reach. Emotions would have to balance out in their own time. 

Bucky slid open the shower door and started the water. Flipping on the flickering light above the sink, the bathroom lit like a beacon in the otherwise darkened apartment. There wasn’t a window in the room to show the misty morning sun, but Steve could almost feel its imminent rise echoed in his lethargy. Paper thin walls and an argument in the unit below them, the muffled music playing somewhere despite the early hour felt comfortable; safe. This wasn’t the best place he and Bucky had ever lived, but  _ certainly _ not the worst.

With clinical detachment, Bucky stripped off his clothes. Although, Steve did catch a wince out of the corner of his eye while he busied himself with finding shampoo and soap in the cardboard box labeled ‘ _ bathroom’.  _ Bucky’s tactical clothing stuck painfully to dried blood; to the wounds that had already begun to heal. Steve stole another glance — just a once-over to assure himself that none of Bucky’s injuries required immediate attention. (It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Bucky to tell him if he was severely wounded — he just worried.) Everything was relatively minor, he’d clean them both up after a shower. But Steve could see how tense the muscles in Bucky’s back were as he braced his metal palm against the wall. Painfully holding his balance, he kicked his pants off his legs. 

Either Bucky was  _ really _ hurting, or trepidation had taken up residence in his skull — made an intrusive home in his head. Steve had his money on the latter.

Turning, Steve was going to offer him privacy, but Bucky wouldn’t take it. “Get in.” His voice sounded smokey and wreaked; sounded every bit like the hell they’d been through — but also votive and vulnerable.

Holding eye contact with Bucky through the fogging mirror, Steve wasn’t going to make him ask twice. So, Steve peeled off his own clothes, leaving them in a heap by the doorway. There was nothing sexual about it — not when Steve was tired, his eyes burning from smoke and exhaustion. Not when they were both bruised and bloody.  _ Especially _ not when Bucky was in a questionable state of mind.

And as much as it hurt Steve to think, he didn’t know what had happened to Bucky in that facility just hours ago — what Hydra had done.  _ Seething  _ under the surface, jittery, Steve could only speculate, and that was a slippery slope. Either way, he was very aware of his own size; his own strength. Worrying the events of the night would have resurfaced Bucky’s most unmerciful memories; that closeness, crowding, could be a trigger — Steve was apprehensive. Bucky might be reminded, with the proximity — with how  _ vulnerable  _ this moment was — of somebody wanting to do him harm. But, if that was the case, it evidently didn’t dissuade Bucky from leaning into him like a shelter. A test of faith. Steve could do that — could be sturdy enough to rely on. (He wondered if Bucky  _ knew _ he was holding Steve up just as much.) 

Only a few seconds before, his expression had looked so distant. But however far away from his body, he was trying to find his way back. Lashes fluttering, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, and pushed his wet hair off his forehead, tipping his face up toward the ceiling. 

The water stung when it hit Steve’s damaged skin. It was cramped — there was only barely enough space under the showerhead for the both of them. But the only things that were  _ real _ were Bucky’s forehead pressed to his shoulder, his hands on his back, the cold tile under his feet. Just holding each other, they let the slightly-too-hot water wash away the blood and sweat and all their sins. 

Bucky didn’t speak. Steve didn’t ask him to — he wondered where that voice had run off to hide, but it would come back on its own time.

By the grace of  _ whatever  _ higher power _ ,  _ neither of them were catastrophically hurt — a pleasant change of pace. Just a few cuts and bruises on Bucky that Steve smoothed his hands over; succored with ghost light touches through the steam. He only pulled away momentarily to retrieve the shampoo bottle from behind him on the ledge, to lather it into Bucky's hair. A kitten-soft sigh and soap over skin as Bucky ran a washcloth across his shoulders. Steve hissed when the cloth came into contact with an abrasion and Bucky kissed his collarbone with a mumbled apology that dissipated into the steam. 

They’d heal, they’d be okay, they’d be  _ okay. _ And if a few tears slipped, they intermingled with the water where they could wash down the drain unacknowledged. 

Clean and bandaged and warm, they stumbled to bed — wrapped themselves in blankets on an unmade mattress. (The sheets were in boxes in the corner for them to worry about tomorrow.) Chest to chest, heartbeat echoing heartbeat like a lullaby — like the way Steve’s Ma used to sing  _ Mo Ghile Mear  _ and  _ Wild Mountain Thyme  _ to him as a child. Curtains shut out the light. Steve thought, offhandedly, that he wanted to sleep for 100 years — but no. He corrected himself immediately, lest the universe take him too seriously. He  _ didn’t _ want that. Not again. He wanted to start  _ living _ .

“What do we do now?” Bucky breathed against his neck, feather light and dulcet.

“We sleep,” Steve said, running lovesome fingertips up his back; the softest lines. “And tomorrow we wake up and make coffee and try to live. And then we do it again the next day. And over an’ over until ‘s not so hard anymore.” 

Bucky kissed his shoulder. A wordless agreement. A  _ ‘that sounds okay, that’s perfect.’ _

“And also probably grocery shopping. We should do that tomorrow too,” Steve added — offhanded, less serious.

Bucky looked up at him in the grayness with tired-sea eyes and a disarming smile, waiting for sleep to pull him under. Steve drifted off with his hand loosely clasped around Bucky’s wrist, right at the pulse point — maybe subconsciously so he could  _ feel _ it; so he could  _ know _ . Steve dreamed of bittersweet moments, snapshots of golden memory, of being young and oblivious and  _ in love. _

_ * _

_ “You look nice,” Steve said softly from over the top of his drawing paper. _

_ In his best outfit, looking dapper with his hair styled, _

_ Bucky blinked, then beamed his lovely wide smile, “ya think?” _

_ “Where ya goin’ lookin’ like that?” What a sight for sore eyes, Steve couldn’t string more than a sentence together. _

_ “I uh.. I have a date,” Bucky ducked his head as he spoke, shy, like he was embarrassed — or maybe something else. _

_ Oh. _

_ Steve could feel his face fall, pretending he hadn’t been looking forward to spending some time with Bucky that evening after he’d finished working on his commission. He turned his pencil over in his hand, pressed the pad of his thumb into the point. _

_ “We’re goin’ dancin’ — me and Penny,” Bucky elaborated. _

_ Turning his attention back to the paper— staring unseeing— Steve tried to keep his face neutral. He was happy for Bucky — really, he was. Bucky was too charming for his own good, magnetic; it wasn’t his fault. Dames were constantly vying for his attention.  _

_ He knew of Bucky's reputation; he knew most of it was bullshit. But Steve also knew the way the neighbors spoke about them; he’d heard the things Bucky's father had said. (They didn’t talk about it outright very often, Steve wouldn’t push. But it was taxing on Steve’s emotions piecing together a narrative he wanted to be true — cognitive dissonance when he’d be presented evidence to the contrary.) _

_ He wasn’t jealous. And he didn’t want to act like this — Bucky went on a lot of dates. Never the same dame more than a few times, though.  _

_ It wasn’t that he wanted Bucky's charisma or popularity. With a stubborn insolence he usually ignored the notion — but sometimes in quiet solitude, Steve would allow himself the admission: it was Bucky he wanted. He wanted to hold Bucky's careful hands and he wanted Bucky's gentle soul and untiring patience. Steve craved the balance to his hot temper, slow like the drip of molasses, the falling-snow cadence of Bucky's voice — the sweetest kid in all of Brooklyn. _

_ (Steve would sulk; would sit up all night in his bed, lovelorn and frowning whenever Bucky went out and he knew that wasn’t fair. Bucky wasn’t  _ **_his_ ** _. Steve didn’t know what it meant when Bucky came home at the end of the night instead of staying out — when he came home and sometimes crawled into his bed. Steve didn’t know why it made him sad, although he’d never say so — he’d break his own heart over and over to spare Bucky any pain.) _

_ Bucky took a few steps closer, but Steve didn’t want to touch him with his dirty hands. Thumbing a graphite smudge off Steve’s cheek, Bucky frowned. Steve knew he was being mean — he knew he was behaving like a petulant child, but he couldn’t keep the pinched expression off his face. _

_ “Hell's your problem, jerk?” Bucky pulled his hand away. _

_ “Nothing. Go have fun,” Steve's tone came out harsher than he intended. _

_ Flinching like Steve had  _ **_struck_ ** _ him, Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but must have decided against it. Steve wondered if he’d imagined the way his hand hesitated on the door handle, but he surely didn’t imagine the heavy thud as the door shut resolutely behind him. And when he came back home, Steve must have also imagined the hesitation in footsteps outside of his room, because Bucky slept in his own bed. _

_ The next morning Bucky didn’t say anything to him when he was getting ready for work. Being an early riser, Steve was up before the sun anyway — certainly it had nothing to do with the trouble he’d had staying asleep. _

_ Trying to play nice, afraid Bucky was going to leave for the day without saying goodbye, Steve cleared his throat. He normally didn’t acknowledge the women Bucky saw. (They weren’t special, he thought bitterly — Bucky took him to the movies too.) “Is she nice?” Steve asked. Because the silence hurt and he couldn’t not have his best friend. He shoved down the ice in his chest. If Bucky was going to see someone, he needed to know that she’d treat him well — he deserved the absolute best and  _ **_more._ **

_ Bucky barked a laugh, and Steve thought for a moment he was still angry, but when he turned to face him, he was smiling. “Penny? She’s sweet,” Bucky leaned his hip against the table casually. _

_ “So you like her,” Steve stated, skinny shoulders slumped. _

_ “Steve.. she doesn’t like.. men.” _

_ “Oh. I’m.. I’m sorry.” Though his voice pitched up at the end like a question.  _

_ “No, moron, that’s the point,” Bucky chuckled, hand on his shoulder. Steve was confused. _

_ “It’s a cover, Stevie. To keep her safe. Everyone thinks she’s got a fella and she knows I'd never make a move on her. Then at the end of the night, she goes home to her girlfriend.”  _

_ It wasn’t clicking. Still dumbfounded, Steve stared, eyes searching Bucky’s face as if the answers were there. It was fake? It wasn’t a real date? _

_ “She’s great company, though. You’ll have to meet her sometime. She’s —,” _

_ “Because she knows you’d never make a move on her,” Steve repeated. Bucky didn’t respond. “That’s what you said.”  _

_ “Yeah.” Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it was. “She knows she’s not my type.” Bucky left it at that, looking to the floor. _

_ They didn’t talk about it. But Bucky slid into Steve’s bed that night, citing the blistering cold as the culprit. Steve turned to face him in the darkness. “What  _ **_is_ ** _ your type?” Because he couldn’t not know. (Because he wanted salt in his wounds.) _

_ Bucky's face was so close to his. He was serious, brow furrowed, though Steve couldn’t see him very well. “Blond.” _

_ Steve nodded, turning back onto his side, trying not to think of Bucky with all those pretty blond dames; trying not to think of their arms around him — of him laughing in the dance hall. Bucky sighed something quiet that sounded like ‘for fuck’s sake,’ then slipped an arm around his waist.  _

_ * _

Steve woke to Bucky standing over him. Blinking in the disorienting brightness, it took Steve a moment to remember where he was. But when it hit him, it was all at once. Steve remembered what chronic pain felt like, and this wasn’t that — but he  _ was _ achy and sore. “What time is it?” He slurred, closing his eyes again. 

Already dressed, Bucky looked like he’d been up for a while. He was eating cereal straight out of the box — one of the ridiculous too-sugary ones that Steve wasn’t even sure counted as food. “12. Picked up some things at the store down the street. We can make a real list later. There’s also coffee in the pot. Get up, I’m bored.”

(The way Bucky was acting, Steve didn’t think he was  _ bored  _ so much as  _ anxious. _ He wouldn’t have been surprised if Bucky only did a lap around the block to secure the perimeter. But he didn’t call him out on it— it was all okay. Whatever made him feel safe.)

“Tell me ya got somethin’ that isn’t all sugar and artificial flavoring,” Steve answered without looking, blocking out the light with the crook of his elbow.

“ _ Ha ha _ . I got milk and bread and crunchy peanut butter,” Bucky smirked. “Honestly though,  _ sugar?  _ That shit’s amazing. Remember those donuts at Coney Island?”

Wistfully, Steve muttered a  _ yes,  _ peaking an eye open at Bucky leaning against the doorframe. He did remember. Whenever they were there as children, Bucky insisted on getting one for the both of them. Even though Steve could never pay him back, Bucky wouldn’t let him refuse.

“When I got captured — the first time —I don’t know  _ why,  _ but all I wanted was a fuckin’ donut. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about it.” Bucky leaned down to kiss the top of his head before leaving the room.

And after 70 years of food deprivation, Steve figured he was allowed to have all the sugar he wanted. He was just glad Bucky was finally starting to eat regularly again.

*

Steve did, eventually, drag himself out of bed and to the kitchen table where Bucky had left a still warm cup of coffee prepared the way he liked it. Sitting next to it was the morning paper. Bucky himself was at the sink running tap water into a bowl. Steve’s eyebrows furrowed; he didn’t sit down.

There was a soft noise from the living room — something other than the episode of That 70’s Show playing on the TV; a rustling. Bucky placed the water bowl on the ground next to the refrigerator. 

“Uh.. Buck?”

“Don’t snap your cap, okay?” Bucky looked at him, wide-eyed and mischievous and dimpled. Never. Steve would never be angry. Especially not when Bucky disappeared into the living room and returned with a tiny blue-eyed bundle of gray and white fur.

Steve’s mouth fell open. “ _ Where _ the fuck did you get a cat?”

“Found her on my way home, no tags. Couldn’t leave her, Stevie.” The cat was in a back alley. (Maybe Bucky had never given up the practice of glancing down them as he walked past.) Holding the tiny ball of fluff against his chest, Bucky shifted his weight on his feet. Swaying almost like rocking a baby, he scratched the kitten behind its ears, let it nip on his metal thumb playfully.

Steve was hung up on the domesticity; the way Bucky said his way ‘ _ home _ ,’ instead of something more innocuous like ‘ _ back _ .’ And he guessed all this  _ did _ explain why  _ cat food  _ was written on the grocery list and underlined several times. He must have stood staring for a fraction too long, because Bucky asked, more hesitantly, “Is this okay?” With eyes flicking back up to Steve’s face, gauging his reaction. 

“Of  _ course _ .  _ Yes _ .” Steve’s heart could have burst with all the affection. He crossed the tiled floor to get a better look. Bucky had always,  _ always  _ wanted a cat. From the time they were small, he was feeding table scraps to neighborhood strays — showing kindness to overlooked creatures. Bucky deserved this. Bucky could  _ have _ a cat— could have  _ whatever  _ he wanted. “What’s her name, Buck?”

“She looks like snow. Like an  _ Alpine _ , I think,” Bucky murmured, turning slightly to let Steve see her tiny face nestled in the crook of his arm; to let him properly say hello. 

“She does,” Steve beamed, running a careful hand over her soft head. (Slow and tentative — nearly reminiscent of the way he used to approach  _ Bucky  _ when he was skittish. _ )  _ Pulling Bucky in by the shoulder, basking in radiant happiness, Steve planted a kiss on his forehead. Bucky exhaled a surprised breath at the abruptness of the movement, but closed his eyes in soft delight a second later.

Steve gave Alpine one more scratch under the chin. Letting the kitten have a look around the apartment, giving her a chance to acclimate to her new surroundings, Steve was wondering how, in the span of twenty four hours, they’d managed to become both fugitives and cat owners. 

*

It wasn’t until the sun had sunk below the horizon again that Steve brought up any more serious topics. The late summer afternoon felt too bright a place for things like this.

The radio was on; dialed to a station that played oldies. Sinatra crooned through the speaker.  _ All This and Heaven Too.  _ Bucky remembered that one. 

_ ‘Stars in the sky are all free and they shine for me _

_ So does the moon in the blue _

_ All this is mine and heaven too’ _

The curtains were drawn. The only light seeped in from the kitchen, but the lamp in the living room remained off. To Bucky’s credit, he wasn’t  _ purposefully  _ sitting in the dark. It had just gotten dark  _ around  _ him. Bucky was on the floor with his back against the couch and the kitten climbing on clumsy paws over his knees. He was thinking about the logistics of getting her a vet appointment while they were laying low when Steve spoke up from behind him. Steve had been watching him for a while; probably thought he was being slick, too, the way he was leaning silently against the doorframe — he wasn’t. Bucky had  _ noticed _ , of course, but didn’t let on. (Maybe he’d delayed speaking so long because he was unsure how to broach the subject.)

“You’re quiet,” Steve observed, eyes downcast. Bucky supposed he  _ was  _ quiet; he’d been staring down at the carpet for a while. “How bad is it?” Steve didn’t mean the physical wounds — those would heal. The memories, the residual feelings of fear, of electrocution, would be harder to walk off. The initial exhilaration of victory had long since been superseded by self-reproach. Bucky shrugged one shoulder and didn’t look up to meet his eyes— he  _ couldn’t  _ if he wanted to give Steve an honest answer. 

He knew Steve was well aware of Hydra’s tactics. They never would’ve put a weapon into his hands if they weren’t  _ positive _ he was batting for their team. (Bucky still felt sick with himself — submitting like that. The Russian felt dirty in his mouth;  _ he  _ felt dirty. Defiled.) Bucky’s barometer for pain was a little  _ off _ — but it wasn’t the worst he’d experienced. He could take solace in that, at least, to handle the aftermath. 

(And Steve hadn’t taken his knife once they’d gotten to the safe house. He  _ trusted _ him with it — so Bucky figured he was making progress. He could take solace in  _ that _ , as well.)

There on the plush carpet with the couch sturdy and grounding behind him and the kitten on his lap, Bucky could pretend he hadn’t jolted awake the previous night — well, that morning — feeling sick, cold dread; feeling that he’d failed a mission and was about to endure the consequences. He could pretend he hadn’t panicked momentarily at the presence of another body in the bed until he  _ recognized  _ Steve. He could pretend he hadn’t quietly dug his metal fingers into his thigh, sharp, quick, letting blood well up and  _ weep _ . This pain was his own; on his own terms. It was  _ all _ his. And the marks; the evidence of his vices would be gone before Steve would see. Went right along with the others — the scars that weren’t  _ visible _ unless he was looking for them.

Smiling a little sadly, blinking a few times, Bucky drawled. “Ain’t bad. Nothin’  _ new.”  _

They hadn’t hurt him in ways he was  _ unfamiliar _ with — but something in him had shut off; violated and scared. Fresh memory — demanding things from him he didn’t know how to give. Putting himself back in that frame of mind had taken a toll, and now he wanted everything to be quiet for a bit. He thought  _ maybe  _ about going on auto-pilot — buckling up and letting someone  _ else _ drive for awhile; he thought about punching out early. But he wasn’t going to  _ do _ either of those things. Contrite, he was going to sit in the sadness, let his chest ache and let the suicidal ideation pass. And it  _ would _ pass. He knew. In a few hours or a day or a month. His self-hatred was already retreating, backing into the shadows in the warmth of Steve’s light. It was manageable — and they could work with manageable; with mental scars that needed time and attention. 

“Dunno if this …  _ changes  _ anything in me. But — that ain’t a new feeling either,” Bucky’s voice held no emotion in it; absently, dismissively a low rumble giving nothing away.

Steve nodded, coming to sit on the floor beside him and slipping an empathic arm around his hunched shoulders. He knew. The right thing was never as cut and dried as it promised to be. The  _ right _ thing often went down like a lead balloon. 

The corners of Bucky's mouth turned down, a quick pull before his expression turned neutral again. “Didn’t break me. But ask me tomorrow.”

(That hurt, poignant, more so than Steve was expecting. But Bucky was the most resilient person Steve had ever met.)

Alpine mewed softly from his lap — commiseration — as if cats could understand the complexity of human emotion. Bucky liked to believe they could. He scratched her head with all the gentleness of  _ ‘yes, I’m here little one. I’ll be okay, thank you.’ _

Looking up at Steve out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sighed, deflecting, “How ‘bout you?” Alpine batted a paw at his necklace, fascinated by the glint of metal. Bucky dangled the dog tags playfully over her, just out of reach.

Steve considered, gazing up at the ceiling then back at Bucky. There was relief more than anything else; but still a tinge of sadness, of war-weariness. “ _ Ask me tomorrow.” _ An agreement, a concession. It took a moment, but Bucky relaxed against his side; smiled back, faintly, wintry.

“Steve …” this was hard to think; even harder to say. “I understand if you need to be angry about — about what  _ I  _ did — what I  _ let  _ them do to me —,”

And Steve didn’t know if Bucky was talking about 70 years ago or yesterday but that didn’t change the answer. He was absolutely not going to entertain this line of thought. 

“ _ No.”  _ Steve said into the darkness.

“But —“

A soft hand under Bucky’s jaw, Steve coaxed his guarded eyes up. (Bucky was afraid he’d see pity in his eyes. He didn’t — only steadfast fire like a dying star and promise and compassion.) “No. I’ll say this as many times as you need me to: you were a victim. Even if you were tired, even if you shut down to spare yourself the fight, even if you walked into this mission knowing what they could do. It wasn’t your fucking  _ fault. _ ” This felt like the first step into no mans land — like the first step off a  _ cliff _ .  _ Reckless _ the way he was back in Brooklyn when he’d start fights with bullies and spit Gaelic at the neighbors who were prejudiced against immigrants. 

_ “Steve,” _ Bucky tried, weakly. 

“I  _ mean _ it, pal. You have no  _ idea _ how much I mean it. I’ll write it down. So you can read it whenever you need to — because I know you won’t  _ ask  _ when you need the reassurance. But.. Bucky, you’re the strongest man I know.”

Bucky laughed a little sadly — like pinpricks. 

“And that’s really sayin’ something because I know the Hulk,” Steve continued. 

A real laugh this time — more like a snort. But, face to face in the darkness, Bucky was all out of disagreements. Just looking at him — so much could be said in just a look; all the gratitude he didn’t have the words for.

“Do you remember when you tried teaching me to Lindy Hop?” Arm still around his shoulders, Steve threaded fingers through Bucky’s hair. Alpine — bored with the necklace — crawled over Bucky’s knee and into Steve’s lap, biting at the fabric of his pants with harmless teeth. 

“I ain’t slippin’, Stevie,” Bucky said hushed; earnest.

“I know you’re not,” Steve soothed. “Just wanna know if you remember.”

Bucky hummed. “You fell on your ass at least six times.” 

Steve laughed, a surprised sound. “Yeah — you’re right.”

“You kept tryin’, though,” Bucky continued, looking down at his hands. He wondered, in passing, if that was supposed to be a metaphor. “An’ then you’d have to sit down for an hour.”

“I had  _ asthma,”  _ Steve chuckled. 

Tipping Steve’s chin closer with just his index and middle fingers, Bucky kissed his bashful smile. Comfortable, safe. 

“Do ya think you could?” Bucky wondered.

“Hm?” Steve pulled back to look at him, still cupping his face. 

“Couldya write it down?” Then, quieter, “please?”

In response, Steve left another soft kiss on his full lips, then the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. “Absolutely,” he breathed against Bucky’s cheek. 

*

Nightmares came in the form of faceless scientists; of snow, of his sisters crying — of Steve not being able to breathe. Bucky remembered Steve having a particularly bad asthma attack; he’d ended up choking and sputtering with tears streaming down his face. Powerless, all Bucky could do was sit with him; hold him and try to coach him to match his breathing.  _ ‘Breathe with me, Stevie. You got it. Slow, in and out.’ _

Bucky was pulled back harshly — more than once — from the edge of sleep, trembling, jolted from the sensation of  _ falling _ . Blanketed in a freshly made bed and the moment of panic just before colliding with the earth, he woke up, gasping. Steve’s hand looped delicately around his wrist — not restraining, never restraining. An anchor.

_ ‘It’s all in my head, it’s all in my head,’  _ Bucky repeated the words over and over to himself like they were sacred; like they could save him. And it  _ was  _ in his head — the very real pounding in his skull. He knew, when the nightmares persisted, Steve would be there to hold him close, to whisper that he'd be okay. How rare it was; how beautiful to feel so safe in someone’s arms. Bucky needed only to shake Steve’s shoulder; to wake him  _ just  _ enough to crawl into his embrace.

*

Steve was dressed and ready for a run early the next morning. Still in bed, Bucky blinked bleary eyes at the kiss-to-the-temple goodbye. 

“Be careful goin’ out,” he said croakily — though he knew Steve didn’t need the reminder. They’d always been good at secrets. And this wasn’t either of their first experiences with avoiding detection.

(Bucky thought it was anxious energy that kept Steve from staying too still. He knew the feeling.) 

“Fed Alpine, you can sleep,” Steve said on his way out the bedroom door.

“Thank you, sugar,” Bucky called back, propping himself up on his elbows. “Your ass looks great in those shorts, by the way.” He heard Steve’s distant laugh just before the front door shut; he pictured the way Steve’s cheeks were probably blushing a pretty pink — all the way up to the tips of his ears. Bucky didn’t feel much like sleeping anymore; they’d gotten pancake mix with the groceries the afternoon prior. He wanted to turn on the radio and make some breakfast. He wanted to finish unpacking. He wanted to find a good movie for them to watch together that night. 

Turning over, there was a note on the nightstand — Steve’s looped handwriting stared back at him from the page. Bucky pushed himself up, sitting back against the headboard. Holding the note in nervous, careful hands he read. And then he re-read. By the third time, he had tears in his eyes. 

_ Bucky —  _

_ You asked me to write this down, and I hope I do it justice. I wish I was more articulate. I know these things are hard to talk about; hard to think about. I’ve restarted this letter at least 10 times because none of the words are right. Feels like I’m writing to you overseas; feels like a love letter and I guess that’s what it is. These are your words to have, to keep. Read them if you ever need the reminder. _

_ Bucky Barnes, I am so deeply in awe of your strength. Not just in the way you fought back, but because I know every day is a new fight. You know that I read your file. I could never lie to you, so I won’t say it wasn’t devastating imagining you going through that much pain. I’m not going to say I don’t blame myself for not being there to stop it.  _

_ But I need you to understand. What they did to you was never your fault. That’s the hill I’m willing to die on. I’ll say it again: _

_ It was  _ _ not _ _ your fault.  _

_ You are not dirty for the hands that have touched you. You are not weak for the ways that they hurt you. You are not the things you had to do to survive it. You are not violent. You are not undeserving. You are not any of the ugliest thoughts in your head.  _

_ You are a force of fucking nature.  _

_ I’ve never seen you any differently for what happened. I’ve never  _ _ loved _ _ you any differently for it. And you know I’d move heaven and hell to prove that. I’d give you the world on a string, if you asked. Swear on my life. _

_ All my love, _

_ Steve _

He let out a shaky breath, wiping his eyes with the pad of his thumb. Alpine looked at him inquisitively from the foot of the bed. Pulling himself together, Bucky slipped the page into his notebook on the nightstand for safekeeping. Then, he made kissy noises at the cat, scooping her up. “C’mon little one. I’m makin’ breakfast. You ever had a pancake?”

*

When he heard Steve’s key in the lock, the dishes, along with the rest of the kitchen, were clean. A stack of warm pancakes was waiting for them on the table. 

Steve had barely closed the door behind him before he was pulled into Bucky’s arms. Cradling the back of Steve’s head with his hand, Bucky buried his nose in the crook of his neck. 

“I’m all sweaty,” Steve complained weakly, like an apology, but he wrapped arms around Bucky’s waist all the same.

“I don’t care. I love you,” Bucky’s voice was strained. He did. He’d say it with his whole chest to anyone who would listen.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Steve promised, absolute and unshakable.

“I know.”

*

The rapture, the exultant relief only lasted for a week — as was the way it often went. Too perfect, gone too soon. They didn’t  _ talk  _ about it — but both men held a wordless understanding. Their team would soon be dealing with the legality of their actions. But better not to worry about it while they didn’t have to know. In the strangeness that came with staring down the clock, with time passing too quickly, they were counting on Natasha to deliver information. And they  _ could _ count on her — so of course they’d see the culmination of this sooner rather than later. Steve tried not to let that make him nervous. 

Bucky had startled himself awake with night terrors about inevitable scenarios — in enough distress to shake Steve out of his  _ own  _ bad dreams. But when it happened for  _ real,  _ agents didn’t come to the door. There was no loud break in; no being dragged from their bed in the middle of the night. 

When it happened, it was quiet. It was the single text from Sam regarding being  _ requested _ in for questioning that cut them down to size. The message referred to it as a “formal briefing”, but Steve saw it for what it  _ was _ . The easy way or the hard way. (And Steve  _ knew  _ Bucky was exhausted from doing things the hard way.) So, they went voluntarily. They turned themselves in because it needed to be confronted. Now that the truth had come out, clearing Bucky's name was the last thing on the list. 

Bucky and Steve were met— at a location far from their safe house — with an armored car. With the way Bucky carried himself like he was shattering, Steve could tell he was  _ scared.  _ Soul-sinking fear of confinement had him frozen in his tracks staring at the vehicle. (And this  _ definitely  _ read more like ‘ _ disciplinary hearing’  _ than ‘ _ casual meeting’ _ .) The  _ tone _ of it all didn’t really leave Steve wanting to get on his knees and pray for forgiveness, for keeps. It didn’t have him on great terms with the people in charge. (It had him clenching his jaw.) 

The promise of restraint  _ burned  _ in the back of Bucky’s mind.

(And they did approach  _ Bucky  _ with restraints. — just Bucky. Steve didn’t let that go unmentioned. “ _ Jesus Christ _ , he’s not an  _ animal.”  _ Steve’s face said  _ I invite you to reconsider.  _ So, their chaperones evidently decided to avoid the confrontation, opting to stick closer to their guns instead.)

The car ride was gravely silent. Claustrophobic. Focusing on his breathing, Bucky’s subconscious was dragged unceremoniously back to being sequestered in Romania. In those days, he’d had nothing and no one. Not a soul in the world. Such a lonely existence, he’d felt so dark blue like a bruise. But his  _ skin _ remembered the man on the bridge. And it was even worse with passing time; it was worse that he felt like he might  _ almost  _ know what he was missing.

And then Steve scoured the world for him — searched for years. That kind of faith; that kind of determination — the thought alone pulled Bucky’s heart to pieces. What had he done to deserve a man who’d quite literally turn the world upside down to keep him safe.

As the vehicle sped down the highway, Bucky dug his fingertips into his thigh — just enough to feel it. Just enough to register the bite of metal through the fabric.

“Don’t do that,” Steve breathed, smoothing a hand over his knuckles. And of course Steve had noticed — they were sitting directly next to each other. Steve rested their entwined hands on his own thigh instead. 

After what felt like an eternity, the car arrived at an unremarkable government building — plain gray exterior but unnecessarily lavish on the inside. Walking into the front doors, through the security checkpoint, with two armed guards on either side of them, Bucky was practically vibrating with agitation. He was strung so tightly he could have snapped. Steve’s hand on the small of his back kept him steady.

The public display of affection — however small, however innocent — made a part of Bucky very nervous. But the other, stronger, part of his subconscious recognized that the guards behind him didn’t see him as Bucky Barnes — they saw him as the Winter Soldier. He could smell the fear on them. And if people were going to see him — to  _ treat _ him like  _ this _ ; he was going to use that fear to his advantage. He could act the part. He could  _ be  _ whomever he wanted to be. No one would do  _ shit  _ if he was  _ scary. _

Under too-bright lights and the clatter of footsteps in an echoing, spacious hallway, Bucky whispered lowly, just to Steve, “You’ll be okay — but I’m.. I’m not anyone’s idea of a hero, Stevie.” He wasn’t hubristic enough to believe himself worthy of redemption.

“You’re mine,” Steve breathed, staring straight ahead, straight into the fluorescent lights. He didn’t see Bucky’s incredulous expression. “Always been my hero. Been savin’ me since we were kids.”

Mouth parted in meek surprise. Buck shoved his fists into the pockets of his leather jacket — taking them out again before one of the guards could shout to keep his hands where they could see them. They were the criminals, after all — Bucky remembered. He knew the drill. He let his right hand press against his own chest instead — just for a second — so he could feel that Steve’s dog tags were still under his black shirt. (Of course they were. He never took them off — but it felt better to  _ know. _ )

In the hallway outside of a large glass-walled conference room, they were met with Sam and Natasha, witness-stand well-dressed. Stark was approaching from the opposite direction in an expensive suit and sunglasses. Steve could have rolled his eyes.

“Try not to let them kill each other,” Sam said under his breath to Natasha, inclining his head toward Stark.

“No promises,” Nat replied, opening the door for Sam. “My money’s on Steve.”

Though, it seemed that Tony’s hostilities were focused solely on  _ Bucky.  _ “You just can’t  _ help  _ yourself from making a mess, can you?” He glowered, taking off his sunglasses in one swift motion so Steve could see the rage in his eyes.

Steve shouldered — just a fraction; just a reflex — in front of Bucky when Stark started closer. Bucky kept his eyes trained past Stark on a linoleum tile in the floor. What Steve said, darkly, was “This isn’t the time or place.” What he meant was “ _ so help me God, if you touch him, I’ll knock you into next week. I don’t care where we are. _ ’ He didn’t want to go another round of this game — not here — but he would. 

A tense silence, grinding teeth, a snide comment about Bucky being a  _ sociopath _ . It was the threat involving  _ prison for murder _ that was the final straw. Incapable of holding his tongue any longer — though, he was still very aware of the guns behind them — Bucky’s eyes snapped up. It was Stark’s flippant behavior that reminded Bucky so much of his  _ father _ when he was at the bottom of a bottle; that reminded him why they didn’t get along. 

“I didn’t get much  _ slack _ in my leash,” Bucky bit, voice dripping venom. “And while we’re at it — I  _ tried  _ to do right by you. And you did  _ this _ . Sold out all your friends. I don’t owe you shit. Hate me all you want.” As if he didn’t punish himself enough for his past. As if he didn’t struggle with it every day. Stark went into the conference room without another word; without so much as a glance behind him. And that was good —because if they stared at each other any longer, Bucky might’ve started to feel the phantom, excruciating pain of his fucking arm being torn off, the searing flesh and metal grafted to bone. Tony was lucky he didn’t want revenge. (Tony wasn’t worth the revenge.) 

Steve was  _ so proud _ . Laughing — always the optimist — he gave Bucky’s shoulder a squeeze. “Ya know, maybe he’ll come around one day,” he reasoned. It would be okay if he  _ didn’t,  _ Steve knew. There was no love lost between them. Bucky shrugged one shoulder and quirked an eyebrow. To his knowledge, hell hadn’t frozen over yet. And he was well beyond the point of caring.

Standing outside the door, Steve’s hand on the doorknob, they were cognizant of the fact that the meeting was held up on their account. (Steve wasn’t bothered.) 

“You sure you’re ready?” Quiet, but exuding concern. These were the people Bucky hadn’t met — people who had only heard the reputation that preceded him; government officials intending to lay out the weight of his sins. But Bucky decided that he didn’t care how anyone saw him. If the best man he knew could still look at him after what he’d done with that much  _ compassion  _ in his eyes — could summon the unmitigated nerve to fight for him on that helicarrier, to fight for him every day following that; then Bucky would be okay. Who was he to call his own integrity into question when Steve loved him this  _ relentlessly _ . 

Bucky took several deep breaths, then looked at Steve, determined. With shaking hands, he smoothed down the collar of Steve’s white dress shirt and nodded. “I have to be.” 

Not breaking eye contact, Steve murmured, “You walk in there with your chin up, got it?”

Bucky nodded, his posture straightening. None of these people  _ intimidated  _ him — but he didn’t necessarily want to go to prison either. (Not that he planned on  _ going,  _ of course _ ,  _ if it came down to that. Not to another cage. But a prison sentence would mean losing Steve  _ again —  _ disappearing to keep him from  _ harboring a fugitive.)  _

Steve squeezed his shoulder again — silent, immutable reassurance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are so appreciated ✨💙


	9. Chapter 9

The second they stepped over the threshold, the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Steve couldn’t ignore the hush that fell; couldn’t pretend he didn’t  _ notice _ the way heads turned to watch them warily. 

_ Everything _ snapped out of Bucky’s expression. It was impassive; cold as steel. It was separation of mind and body for protection. Bucky was the serrated edge of a knife; an escape artist, cataloguing exits for when shit went bad. (It was a barely perceivable movement — a flick of his eyes over the room. But Steve was used to picking up on the smallest shifts in his expression.) The only out was manned by armed guards — unless he planned on breaking through glass to the ground several stories below, which wasn’t  _ entirely  _ out of the question. He’d had  _ worse  _ plans. 

Steve sat with Bucky on his left, Sam and Natasha on his right, at a long mahogany table full of silver-tongued politicians and department chairs. Most of the meeting’s attendees were strangers — more officials that only knew him by reputation. Steve had seen a photograph once, somewhere in his eidetic memory; knew some of their faces despite never having met them. Most likely, they already had their preconceived notions of him, of Bucky. There would be little he could do to change their minds, he was sure. 

The man at the head of the table, Steve  _ did _ know — the chairman of a defense task force. The one with the unfortunate charge of keeping him and Bucky in check. The one who’d never taken him seriously. A tall man with a gray crew cut, glasses and a self-important air about him.

“Ah! Captain,” he said, shuffling through papers. “So pleased you could join us.”

Steve nodded curtly, and didn’t speak. Was that a bit of sarcasm he detected? Or was he imagining things?

Bucky was ill at ease, and it had little to do with the uncomfortable chairs. He was digging fingertips into his own thighs until Steve reached out to hold his hand under the table. It was the way he slipped his palm over Bucky’s knee, entwined their fingers, and held steady that said ‘ _ I’m right here. I’ll fight this so you don’t have to. I’ll fight this for the both of us.’  _ Because if this was a last chance, Steve had no intention of ever letting Bucky go again. Not even if he had to raze the ground they were standing on. No mercy.

Bucky squeezed his hand, surveying the scene in front of them. Back to the glass, he couldn’t help but feel  _ cornered _ — ensnared like prey. Across the table, Tony was angrily clicking and un-clicking a pen, staring out the window. None of the attendees would meet Bucky’s eyes. Except the man at the head of the table. He had the same sickly, insincere politician’s smile as Pierce — it almost made Bucky nauseous. It almost made the hairs prickle at the back of his neck.

“Gentlemen, shall we get started?” The chairman asked.

Natasha snorted under her breath; whether at the use of the term ‘ _ gentlemen’  _ with the way they’d all just been behaving, or at the blatant and not unfamiliar exclusion of herself from the conversation.

The chairman didn’t correct himself. “We’ve launched an investigation into the recent disappearances of some lower level public officials. The documentation you’ve provided to us has proved.. insightful.”

Holding his breath — Steve’s involuntary fight or flight response was starting to kick in. What did he mean? Steve really wished these people would be more direct. He wished he wasn’t feeling the same pang in the pit of his stomach as when Colonel Phillips sneered ‘ _ I asked for an army and all I got was you. You are not enough.’  _ Initial but understandable skepticism _ ,  _ he feared Bucky’s past would be called into question — however unfairly. (As if his  _ abuse _ had been a moral failing on  _ his  _ part.) Steve wondered if they’d get a trial, if  _ due process under the law  _ applied to people like them, or if it was more like three strikes and you’re out.

Bucky ran his thumb over his knuckles. When no one said anything, the chairman continued. “We had been looking for the data breach for some time, but we were unaware of the ... magnitude of the problem. Turns out the call was coming from inside the house.” His eyes flickered to Steve. “Sorry, that means —,”

“When a Stranger Calls,” Steve interjected, straight faced. “I know. I understood the reference.” In the following beat of silence, Bucky nudged his elbow — the ghost of a smile flickered across his face. 

“Captain Rogers,” the chairman continued, undisturbed, “the operation you’ve uncovered was far larger than we could have feared. Because of your team, we’ve been able to locate an individual that had been evading us for— ”

Any remaining cordiality was punched out of the room with Stark’s palms smacked flat against the table. “I’m sorry — he  _ broke  _ the  _ law.  _ Am  _ I  _ the only one who doesn’t think we should be indulging this? Am  _ I  _ the crazy one?” he asked, truculent.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered,” Sam muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back further in his chair. Stark scowled defiantly across the table at them — at Steve specifically, though he hadn’t been the one that had spoken.

Tension was growing, weighing down the air, but Bucky was handling the meeting with  _ unbelievable  _ poise. Deep, even breaths; he was still apart from the steady pattern he traced on the back of Steve’s hand with his thumb under the table. People were often wary of him when he was like this — assuming if he wasn’t  _ speaking  _ he wasn’t  _ thinking.  _ That wasn’t the case; and it wasn’t Bucky's fault he was so hard to read.

Steve was astonished at Bucky’s repose — and  _ impatient _ . Tony launched into an argument — one-sided, mainly just to hear himself talk. Steve had stopped listening. Tapping his fingers on the table, a title fight had broken out between Steve’s nerves and his vexation. His anger wasn’t pulling any punches. (And all this time the team had assumed Bruce was the only one who got  _ angry.  _ They’d never  _ seen _ Steve angry. He could  _ get _ angry. At the unfairness of it all; angry at the cruelty Bucky had faced — the kind he couldn’t justify with God. Angry that they couldn’t seem to catch a fucking break.) Closing his eyes, he collected himself. 

Fluorescent lights buzzed — he didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

_ “Gentlemen,”  _ Natasha started, exuding charm. It was an act, Steve realized, skill fitting of any practiced honeypot operative. Assessing which way she could play the situation to their benefit. Reasonable, coolheaded. Back before he  _ really  _ knew Nat, Steve didn’t trust how quickly she shifted between personalities; masks. She had so many of them he hadn’t known which face was the real her. (He wondered, almost as often, if  _ she _ knew.) Now he saw through it, though none of the other men around the table did. “Are charges being brought against us or not?”

Steve kept his hope in check; expected the worst. He had a detailed account of Bucky’s alibis for the nights of any abductions in question. He was prepared to explain — 

“ _ None _ of you are being charged.”

The silence was resounding. The whole room seemed to stop holding its breath. Steve snuck a look at Bucky's face. Exhaling, Bucky ran a thumb over his knuckles, kept his eyes down. 

“The goal here,” the chairman emphasized, lacing his fingers together and becoming marginally more exasperated, though his cold smile was intended to hide it, “is in part to  _ mend _ an alliance.”

Steve and Tony? Unlikely. Irreconcilable differences — some things were better left alone.

Resting an elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, Natasha replied, “I’m sure Stark’ll burn that bridge when he gets to it,” throwing out the affability when it was no longer necessary. She was talking more  _ to  _ him than _ about _ him _.  _ “Gets real cold, though, after the fire goes out.”

The silence was tenser this time around. The look on Nat’s face said, ‘ _ roll your eyes at me again, Tony, I  _ **_dare_ ** _ you.’  _ Steve would’ve hated being on the receiving end of the daggers she was glaring.

Discarding all the pleasantries, there was no more time for tact or diplomacy. Not when other sanctions could be considered. Not after months of being disparaged; not when their concerns were trivialized. Steve was sick of the show; the melodramatics.

“So we’re letting the  _ fossil _ call the shots now?” Stark asked, bravado faltering. “Need I remind you — everything  _ special _ about him came out of a bottle. Thanks to  _ my father,  _ actually — whom Barnes killed.”

It sounded like a threat — as if Bucky were some unpredictable  _ menace.  _ It sounded like in a moment, Stark would list Bucky's kills and insist he should be sent away for life. (That wasn’t  _ Bucky. _ And if they were planning to put him on  _ trial _ , Steve hoped a jury would agree.)

Bucky stared down at the wood grain on the table — didn’t raise his eyes, but flinched like it hurt.

Tony could make digs at Steve all he liked — and he  _ had.  _ Quite frequently, in fact. But that didn’t make his statements  _ true _ . ‘ _ Truth was a matter of circumstance _ ,’ as Natasha always said. 

Ignoring the second part — he wouldn’t take the bait — Steve replied, “At least I stand for something.” Low and poisonous. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man. Unwavering in his conviction, protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves; he couldn’t be silent in the face of injustice. Tony, who was less reliable than the weather, wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.

“Forgot I was talking to the morality police,” Stark deadpanned, sounding like that  _ burned. “Where was the Boy Scout code when you and your pal jumped me in Siberia?” _

“Who threw the first punch?” Steve demanded at the same time as Sam snapped, “Grow a fucking spine, Tony. Or a thicker skin.” Right to the point, shooting to kill — remorseless. Sam wasn’t typically this cold, but he had every right to be. “And you didn’t get jumped. You got your ass beat for starting a bullshit fight you couldn’t finish.”

“That’s  _ enough _ ,” the chairman said, standing from his seat. He clearly hadn’t thought he’d be mediating family therapy. There was uncomfortable shifting from the other attendees.

“Nonetheless, we’d like to issue a formal apology to Captain Rogers for our mishandling of the situation. And to extend our thanks for leading the task force responsible for taking down a major Hydra operation.” 

Steve’s jaw dropped.

“Oh for the love of  _ God,” _ Tony mumbled under his breath ostentatiously, along with something about needing a goddamn drink.

Speechless, trying to get his footing, Steve shared a sideways glance with Bucky, then looked at Sam and Nat down the table. Sam’s eyebrows raised, Natasha half-smirked. Seated again at the table, the chairman had shifted the topic of discussion to Captain America’s characteristic valor, but Steve interrupted. “Sorry,  _ what?  _ If we aren’t being prosecuted, what was with the  _ guns _ ?” He asked. 

The chairman didn’t answer. So, instead, the man seated on his right side scrambled to make an excuse. “We were .. prepared for hostilities.” 

“Right.” Comprehension dawning, Steve stated flatly, “you’re afraid of him.” And he didn’t want to hear any more. 

“Forgive us, Captain, but with Sergeant Barnes’  _ extensive _ history of violence, we had to take our precautions,” the man continued.

Steve tightened his grip on Bucky’s hand. ‘ _ They don’t know you like I know you.’ _

“While we’re on the topic,  _ Bucky  _ is the reason we got involved in the first place. I’m just the guy you didn’t listen to.”

Glancing back over the files in front of him, the chairman stuttered. “You led the efforts —”

“ _ Sam _ led the efforts,” Steve was more than willing to take the fall if punishment was being doled out — but credit where credit was due. He had a pretty fucking great team. (And he didn’t want to be  _ deified  _ like this — didn’t want praise, didn’t deserve it.)

“Yes, we.. also recognize Sergeant Barnes’ contribution as well as —,”

“ _ Bucky  _ was the reason we took down that Hydra operation. Sam did most of the legwork. And we couldn’t have gotten  _ anywhere _ without Natasha’s intel. She’s the best there is,” he spoke calmly and matter-of-factly, but under it all he was simmering. 

Observing the situation, Nat was  _ grinning  _ against the back of her hand.

The chairman composed himself. “In any case, regardless of the way you all  _ disobeyed direct orders,  _ we’d like to ask you back at an  _ official _ capacity.” 

Glancing at the rest of his team, they’d reached an unspoken consensus— Steve knew them well enough. He settled on his response. “It was your reluctance to get involved in the first place that caused a lot of preventable damage. Yes, we stopped it, but  _ years _ too late. And all this, all the plans, all of Hydra’s attempts to prey on vulnerable people, the towns on the outskirts suffering without knowing  _ why.. _ . If we didn’t step in, how many more people would have paid the price?”

“With all due respect, Captain, we did what the circumstances  _ allowed _ for.”

And, no, Steve wasn’t cut out for this shit — not anymore. Not the revisionist histories or embellishments. Steve had the patience of a saint — so he’d been told — but this was too much. It had never been about legality. It was about control; about keeping the team nicely up on the shelf until they would be used as pawns — until someone had an agenda.

“With all  _ due respect,  _ that remains to be seen. I’m out. I’m done,” Steve said. (The only guy he planned on taking any orders from for the foreseeable future was  _ Bucky.)  _ Placing his palm flat on the table, staring down at freshly healed knuckles, he continued. “Think I’m more of a consultant. Sam, the shield’s yours, if you want it. I think we’re finished here.”

Eyes fell on Bucky, who hadn’t said a word for the entire meeting. “Count me out, too. I don’t play well with others,” he smirked. That wasn’t true, of course, Bucky had been  _ invaluable _ to the team. He was playing into an image — what they’d all assumed of him — that he was hostile; a threat, violent. He wasn’t. Bucky, who had been running himself into the ground trying to atone for the sins of his past — a hard-won battle with his conscience, like draining blood from stone. Bucky, who was a better man than any of the agents or politicians sitting around that miserable table. 

Steepling his hands, Stark pursed his lips but, uncharacteristically, didn’t have anything else to say. Sam suppressed a laugh, as he’d been witnessing Steve’s subtle  _ ‘fuck you’s _ ’ to the government for  _ years  _ but this was the first time it had been  _ said _ it in so many words.

“Are we free to go?” Steve asked.

“Well, yes —”

Pushing his chair back abruptly, Steve left the table with Bucky following suit, straightening the collar of his jacket. Chin up. Partway to the door with Bucky only a half-step behind, nobody made a move to stop them. 

“Don’t call unless the world is ending,” Steve threw over his shoulder.

Steve knew that day would  _ probably  _ come. But for now he needed time — the time he’d lost so much of. No hard feelings. He wished them well, even Tony. He wished Stark better than he deserved.

The second they were out of the conference room, positive they hadn’t been followed, Bucky grabbed his forearm and dragged him around a corner. Out of sight of the glass panelled walls, Bucky pulled him in by the collar of his dress shirt and  _ kissed  _ him. Steve sighed into his mouth, cupped the back of his head and backed him up against the wall. 

Pulling away hastily, Steve’s eyes flew open, glancing up at the ceiling. He was worried whoever was watching the security cameras was getting a  _ show _ . But, of course Bucky had taken that into account. Of course Bucky had catalogued all that information on their walk into the building.

“Blind spot,” Bucky breathed, guiding Steve’s lips back down to his.

Eyes fluttering closed again, Steve slipped a hand up under Bucky’s leather jacket, rested it on his hip. Dragging blunt nails across Bucky’s skin, the kiss was turning clumsy — a bit too much teeth because they were  _ smiling.  _

They’d come out of this vindicated and stainless — more than either of them could have hoped for. 

“Hey, Stevie?” Bucky asked. Their noses were touching.

Steve hummed. 

“Light of my life, you big fucking dumbass. You know we probably shouldn’t have left it like that, right?” Bucky said with a smile so dazzling and wide — his whole  _ face  _ was alight and  _ God,  _ Steve hadn’t seen  _ that  _ smile in so long.

“I know.” Steve smoothed a hand over Bucky’s lower back so lovingly. “In my defense, I think you’re a bad influence,” he remarked, provoking an elbow to the ribs.

“Usedta be the one keeping your ass outta trouble.” (That was equal parts true and  _ not  _ true.) “Can we piss on Reagan’s grave next?” Bucky grinned, mischievous, against his mouth. “You’re incredible, by the way.”  _ God _ , Bucky loved him like that — steadfast, dauntless; that  _ fire  _ in him.

Steve beamed, eyes crinkling, gleaming. Maybe they  _ really  _ needed to get somewhere private — but he would have agreed with anything Bucky had said just then. Inarticulate, words got trapped behind his teeth. Suppressed laughter like champagne bubbles welled in the cage of his ribs. Stupid thoughts and correspondingly stupid actions.

It wasn’t until they got home safely that Bucky was hit by the reality of what they’d done. Bucky couldn’t place the names of all the emotions he was feeling — but he thought they were  _ good.  _ Then came the overwhelmed, relieved tears — the ones he tried to hide from Steve; the ones he tried to apologize for. Steve wrapped arms around his shoulders and let him cry himself out on the couch. 

Soothing him, Steve looked him dead in the eyes and told him never to be sorry for  _ crying,  _ for feeling things, for being human. Airy, weightless kisses pressed against Bucky’s temple, his closed eyelids, the corner of his mouth; whispered reassurance until they both dozed off on the couch, happy and warm. (Bucky had been too restless to sleep the night before.) And in Steve’s dreams, he saw all the good hearted trouble they’d caused as kids, all the recklessness — how some things never changed. 

*

_ “Bucky, where are you  _ **_going?_ ** _ Ma said to be back before dark,” Steve demanded, exasperated. _

_ “Just keep up, Stevie. I wanna show ya somethin’,” Bucky prompted. Steve was running as fast as a 13 year old asthmatic could down the nearly empty sidewalk. (Bucky did slow his steps, though, letting him catch up.) _

_ A few paces in Bucky’s wake, Steve knocked into a dock worker in his haste. The man called after them — something about rotten kids — and Steve wheezed an apology behind him. The last of the summer sunlight was sinking behind the horizon. (It must have been pretty. Bucky had tried to explain sunset colors to him once, but Steve wished he could see it for himself.)  _

_ The boys were not, in fact, going to be home by dark. _

_ “You’re gonna get us in trouble,” Steve hissed. His Ma wasn’t strict. As long as Steve was kind and tried his hardest in school, she didn’t impose many other rules on him. But she didn’t want him roaming the streets at night. _

_ “No, I  _ **_ain’t_ ** _. Quit your whinin’,” Bucky dimpled. _

_ “Why are we going to the lake?” Steve asked, feet beginning to recognize their path. It was one they’d taken a hundred times before. _

_ Halting in his tracks, Bucky grabbed his elbow and pointed down the embankment to the water. “Shh, just look.”  _

_ Steve’s breath caught. He’d seen fireflies before, but never so  _ **_many_ ** _ in one place. They flickered and danced over the lake; they flitted through the tall grass. Bucky chuckled triumphantly at his wide, wonderstruck eyes, leading him by the arm further down the path to the lake. And Steve, who had been running his mouth since they left his apartment, shut up.  _

_ Sitting cross legged in the grass, they didn’t speak until the sunlight had completely faded from behind the trees, leaving them to observe the insects in their quiet glory. Steve didn’t really care about getting into trouble, anymore — not with a view like this. Not with his very best friend next to him to witness it too. _

_ Steve didn’t know if he’d done it, or if Bucky had, but their hands were resting side by side in the grass between them. Their pinkies overlapped. _

_ Something warmed his skinny chest, like he’d swallowed a mouthful of hot tea too quickly — maybe unintended, but not at all unpleasant. He brushed his bangs out of his eyes with his left hand, unsure of why it  _ **_mattered so_ ** _ that he didn’t disturb this happenstance. He didn’t want to move the hand Bucky was all-but-holding.  _

_ “Ma says there are these lights in Ireland,” Steve whispered. This felt like a time for whispering. The moment was bigger than the two of them — bigger than Brooklyn, bigger than all of New York. Archaic and eternal. He wanted to keep it forever. Still staring out over the water, he could tell Bucky was looking at his face. “Will-o’-the-whips. They’re supposedta mislead travelers or somethin’. She says they’re spirits. I think they’re fireflies.” _

_ He expected Bucky to tease him — any of the other cool kids in school would’ve, if he said something like that. They would have called him a sissy or punched him in the arm. Bucky didn’t. Instead he just nodded his head in solemn agreement — like it made all the sense in the world. _

_ In the sticky late July humidity, Steve looked down at their hands — at the way Bucky’s pinkie curled around his — and noticed a bruise on Bucky's wrist. Frowning, Steve decided he’d ask about it later. Maybe when they got home; maybe when the world didn’t seem so big. Bucky huffed, laying back in the grass. Following him down, shoulder to shoulder, Steve looked up at the sky. They didn’t talk. They didn’t have to. The stars winked at them from the heavens.  _

_ Bucky had a lot of friends — Steve felt lucky to be invited on little adventures like this; lucky to be thought of at all. He even said so; he couldn’t help himself. _

_ “No I don’t,” Bucky said. _

_ “You  _ **_do_ ** _ have a lot of friends.” _

_ “Not like you,” Bucky turned his head to look Steve in the face. “You’re my favorite friend.” _

_ Steve smiled up at the sky, the word ‘favorite’ bouncing happily around in his mind. He was someone’s favorite. Bucky’s favorite. _

_ The rational part of Steve’s conscience knew they should go — they had already stayed too long; they had to beat his Ma home. But he was so reluctant to leave.  _

_ Far sooner than he would have liked, Bucky was standing, holding out both hands for Steve to take to pull him up out of the grass. Steve dragged his feet on the walk back under the moon. Unsurprisingly, they’d lost track of time — his Ma was waiting for them when they stepped through the door with her arms crossed over her chest.  _

_ Steve held his breath, preparing to face his Ma’s wrath, staring down at a scab on his knee. _

_ “Steven Grant Rogers where  _ **_have_ ** _ you been? Had me worried sick, the two a ya,” his Ma scolded. Her tone was sharp, though she didn’t raise her voice. _

_ Bucky bowed his head. “Sorry, ma’am, it was my fault. I just wanted him to see the fireflies.” _

_ Steve felt a pang in his chest when he looked up at her stern face. Bucky's eyes remained downcast. He hated disappointing his Ma. And part of him also worried he’d be told he’d no longer be allowed to see Bucky as penance for breaking the rules.  _

_ “No. It was  _ **_my_ ** _ fault, Ma,” Steve contradicted. “Don’t blame Bucky.” _

_ She stared at them both for a moment more, then her face softened. “Don’t worry me like that again. Home before dark means  _ **_before_ ** _ dark, are we clear?” _

_ “Yes, ma’am” they both said. _

_ “Are ya stayin’ the night, James?”  _

_ Bucky blinked, surprised — like he was prepared to be asked to leave.  _

_ “I … yes, please,” Bucky stammered, eyes bright like he could have cried. Steve noticed, but he wasn’t going to mention it. _

_ “Go on and wash up, then. You two best not be trackin’ mud on my floors,” Steve’s Ma said. _

_ They used to, when Bucky started spending the night, lay out cushions on the floor. But over the course of months or years, Bucky had migrated to Steve’s bed. (Whether because it was stupid for him to be on the floor when Steve was  _ **_little_ ** _ and they could both fit, or because Steve was cold. Or an amalgamation of other reasons. But that’s where Bucky stayed — like it had just always been so.) _

_ (Never at Bucky’s house, just at Steve’s.) _

_ Bucky was looking up at the ceiling, one arm behind his head, the other hand gripping the thin sheet to his chest. Steve turned onto his side to face him, knees pulled up, hands folded like a prayer and tucked under his cheek.  _

_ “Buck?” Steve whispered. _

_ “Hm?” _

_ “What happened here?” Steve picked Bucky's hand up off his chest; flipped it over to see the mark on his wrist. Something about the placement of it turned Steve’s stomach. Bucky didn’t stop staring at the ceiling. He looked, instantaneously, a lot older than he was. Sadder. But it was hard to see through the dark — Steve could have been imagining things. _

_ “Nothin’ Stevie. It’s nothin’.” _

_ “Are.. are the older kids givin’ you trouble?” Steve asked. That didn’t make sense. Bucky was popular. He didn’t get picked on.  _

_ “No.” Then what was it? Bucky caught his hand, loosely linked their fingers. “Go to sleep.” _

_ Of course Steve couldn’t. He chewed on his bottom lip until Bucky was long since asleep, face peaceful and hand still limply clasping his. _

_ Steve knew the way Bucky's father spoke to him. Steve had seen the flashes of fear on Bucky’s face. When it clicked, Steve was overcome with a rush of rage like he’d never before known. He couldn’t articulate the feeling, but he wanted to swing his fists or cry or scream. He was burning all over, full of fire, a hypernova. A hot, angry tear ran down his cheek, but he scrubbed it away. He was a kid — just a stupid kid. He was weak and small. He couldn’t  _ **_change_ ** _ anything. _

_ Life was cruel and Steve had never been angrier that he couldn’t do a thing about it. _

*

The next night, Steve made good on his promise from all those years ago— the one he’d sworn in a letter that Bucky never saw. They would disappear for a while — somewhere quiet; somewhere away from other people. And while it was a shorter lived excursion than Steve had imagined, it was a start. 

They’d found a secluded-enough section of beach on the cape. As it was still late July, it was too busy during the day; too loud. But it was perfect at nighttime, when the tourists had packed up and moved on and the air had cooled significantly. 

Steve didn’t want people to see them. They weren’t  _ hiding —  _ but he wanted to keep their location on a need to know basis. And the government didn’t need to know. 

Steve was sure a media circus would ensue if the nature of his and Bucky’s relationship was made public. And while that didn’t scare him as much as it should have, he wanted to shield Bucky from any other scrutiny. The world had taken enough from him already— tarnished and tarred him. (Steve was painstakingly repainting him gold.) If Bucky needed to keep this secret to feel safe, that’s exactly what they’d do. After all, it was nobody’s business but theirs.

Steve still felt transient — though they did transport their abandoned things from the previous safe house to their Boston apartment. Bucky had his house plants, Steve had his record player and books. They weren’t quite sure where their  _ forever  _ was going to be — but as they were laid out on the sand under the stars, Steve wasn’t in a rush to figure it all out. The world could exist just between these city blocks for now. 

(No, home wasn’t a  _ place. _ Home had a heartbeat.) 

Skin still warm from the recently set sun, Bucky was on his back with one arm behind his head and the other around Steve’s shoulders, watching the moon rise. He’d discarded his shirt, wanting to  _ feel  _ the sand under him. It was blood red and enormous; just starting to emerge from the sea. The steady roar of the waves, the expanse of space above them — it was breathtaking. It struck Bucky with awe. He had always had a soft spot for the stars, the planets. How lucky they were to witness this.

“Wouldn’t mind stayin’ here,” Steve said, head pillowed on his chest and voice low enough that it was almost swallowed by the steady crash of waves. “Right here. Wouldn’t mind forever if it was with you.” 

Bucky couldn’t have agreed more. He hummed, mourning-dove-call soft, kissing the top of Steve's head. The beach was empty — not a soul besides them. This felt like when they’d fall asleep in Steve’s childhood bed face-to-face and holding hands; old enough to understand the implications, young enough not to care. It felt like when they’d wake up the next morning with an extra quilt draped over them. 

The tenderness still ached like a bruise — a reminder of how he’d been ruined, made unfit to be given it. But where Bucky’s arm was draped around Steve, his palm rested flat against his heart — this was real.

They talked about places they wanted to see — quiet whispered plans to visit Wakanda before they picked somewhere more permanent to settle. (Shuri had been wanting to check in. Bucky had sent her a few texts, but hadn’t gotten around to calling her back.) Steve talked about going to the Grand Canyon  _ together _ someday in the future. (Bucky had always wanted to see it. He liked places like that — big places where he could feel small and insignificant.)

The sea, dark as wine, crept over the sand as the tide started coming in. Further off in the distance the white caps of waves reminded Bucky of galloping horses. As a salt-heavy breeze rolled in off the Atlantic, Bucky couldn’t quite decide how he felt about the ocean. It was  _ beautiful _ , powerful and immense grandeur — it was also a  _ painful, _ profane reminder. (Steve had almost drowned in an ocean; a colder one — then again in the Potomac.) And, when Bucky had been in a  _ cage _ , there were instances in which his head had been held under water — punishment for disobedience. The thought of submerging himself in it now made him  _ uneasy,  _ shaken; palpable evidence of trauma. But those were different times, different places. 

Breeze ruffled Steve’s honey-blond hair and Bucky made up his mind. He wanted to take this back for himself too — even with his heart lodged in his throat. He could do this. 

Standing up abruptly, he held his hands out for Steve to take — pulled him to his feet. Steve’s brows drew up in confusion until Bucky gave his hand another insistent tug and took off toward the water. Plunging into the shallows in just his shorts, he felt Steve trailing right behind him. Bucky came up from under a wave, mouth wide in a gasp, shaking water out of his ears. The temperature difference was just enough shock to be  _ exhilarating.  _

A startled laugh escaped Steve’s lungs when Bucky smacked the water hard, splashing him. He splashed back, light-hearted, muttering something that sounded like “ _ you little shit.”  _

No, the ocean wasn’t bad. Not like this. Not in the shallows with Steve’s hands on his waist, blinking water out of his eyes. Not with the moonlight refracting off the surface. Not while they were giggling like school children, feet sinking into sand. This was perfect.

This was bittersweet saltwater on his lips and silvery-toned lull of breaking waves and temperate, poetic breeze. With the rest of the world shut away, these moments felt like velvet; felt like smoke in his mouth —slow and thick and sweet. Copacetic. 

It felt like Coney Island. It felt like when they’d spend days by the water and eat warm donuts; when Steve would be  _ laughing  _ the unguarded innocence of youth and Bucky would thumb sugar off his cheek. It felt like when he and Steve had gone to the fortune teller — had their palms read as a  _ joke _ — except this was more secret, more magic. Tucked away from the public’s eyes, from any obligations or responsibilities, the night melted into them like liquid. Moments made for the darkness. Steve kissed him again, an open-mouthed laugh.

He and Steve left only when the tide started coming in too far, threatening to swallow the pile of their clothes and shoes on the shore; when the moon had made its journey halfway across the sky. Slipping his right hand into Steve’s, they started back to their rented car parked up the street. 

They drove back home with the windows down. Bucky tapping his metal thumb against the steering wheel to the music on the radio. He didn’t know the particular song, but the station claimed to be classic rock — he liked it. With his other arm across the center console, he splayed his hand devotedly across Steve’s thigh. Bucky’s heart did a flip when Steve grinned, entwining their fingers.

“Remember that night in the dugout — after we almost got caught together in the ops room?” Steve asked, leaning his head back against the headrest and looking at Bucky with a cocky smile and firework eyes. “Remember what you said to me?”

Fleeting illumination from streetlights passed over Steve’s face as they drove through the dark city. Cheeks coloring, Bucky bit his bottom lip. “Yeah, I remember.” 

Not much had even really  _ happened  _ in that dugout — but it was enough. They couldn’t meet each others’ eyes the next day without blushing. Of  _ course _ Bucky remembered what he’d said. ‘ _ You know I’d give you anything you want, sugar.’  _ He drew their clasped hands up to his mouth, pressing his lips against Steve’s knuckles. 

*

After showering off the salt and sand, Steve fell into their bed, stretching languidly in the cool sheets. He wasn’t shy about the way he was staring at Bucky over him, hair still damp, lit only by the city lights that flickered through the window — dark and beautiful. Laying back, propped up on his elbows with knees slightly bent, Steve let Bucky wedge his body between his thighs. Skin to skin. Kissing down his neck, lower and lower still, Bucky must have known exactly what he was doing —  _ exactly _ how gone Steve was for him. 

Steve may have even gone a little slack-jawed when Bucky sat up, running hands down his calves and leaving a scorching kiss on his knee. Steve  _ felt _ it even after Bucky pulled away, looking up at him with that crinkled forehead and that sinful mouth — fucking  _ hell  _ that mouth. That mouth was smiling suggestively in a way that would have been completely lurid if it hadn’t also been so  _ sweet. _

Reaching up, Steve tangled fingers in Bucky’s hair.  _ Insatiable _ want. He wanted to spend a long time taking Bucky apart — piecing him back together. Or letting Bucky call the shots. Either. Both. Everything. They had time. Steve cupped Bucky's face, running his thumb over his smooth cheek. Asking, respecting boundaries entirely and without question. Catching his wrist, holding on, Bucky parted his mouth playfully, just enough to slip Steve’s thumb gently between his teeth. Without breaking eye contact, Bucky kissed the side of his hand. Steve could’ve sworn he blacked out for a second. Dazed and a little giddy, he had to blink his eyes back into focus.  _ Jesus _ . 

“Gonna give me a heart attack lookin’ like that, Barnes,” Steve knew he was blushing all the way up his bare chest. He wondered when the novelty was supposed to wear off. It wasn’t like this was the first time Bucky had gotten him like this — but every time was the same thrill, just as wonderful. Here Steve was, blushing like a teenager. 

“ _ Kiss me,”  _ Bucky growled, almost surprising  _ himself.  _ Bucky had — for so long — been sure he’d never want to be touched again. To be so assertive now — to ask for, to  _ take _ what he wanted, what Steve was happy to give him — was  _ miraculous. _

“Have you  _ always _ been this bossy?” Steve swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. He tugged at Bucky’s hair — just gently. Bucky licked his bottom lip. Pulling Bucky in by the side of his neck, Steve drank him in with his eyes. Knees fell open to allow Bucky closer. 

“Only if you’re  _ lucky _ .”

And,  _ yeah _ — with the solid weight of Bucky on his chest, with the way Bucky’s mouth moved against his, with the way Bucky’s hand ghosted over sensitive skin — Steve  _ definitely _ felt lucky.

*

After, laying face-to-face, sleepy and sated, Bucky whispered, “you used to complain about being cold all the time — back in Brooklyn. In our apartment. Even in summer. And you’d make me scratch your back because you couldn’t sleep otherwise. Am I remembering that right?”

That coaxed a smile from Steve. Yes, he had been small and anemic, and it was hard to keep himself warm. But that wasn’t the only reason. He stroked knuckles across Bucky’s cheek, then pressed his thumb softly against the dimple in his chin. “ _ Was  _ cold. Truthfully, though,” Steve whispered back, “I liked havin’ you in my bed.”

Skin tingling at the admission, Bucky’s cheeks flushed, pretty and bashful. He went to cover his face, but Steve pulled his hand away gently, wanting to  _ see _ him.

“ _And_ I’m pretty sure _you_ _offered_ me back scratches.” Steve was suspecting now that Bucky had been finding ways to be close to him.

“I thought about it, too. Back then.” While they were confessing, Bucky figured he should say so. “Thought about it all the time.”

Steve wanted to scoff a laugh.  _ All  _ that time? Even when he was just skin and bones? Surely not. Surely Bucky couldn’t have found him  _ that  _ attractive. Surely Bucky had higher standards. But Bucky’s eyes looked so lovely and dark and honest. 

Bucky had told Steve before — many times — that he’d always been worth something; that he had never seen him differently. But that had always been a hard pill for Steve to swallow. “You could’ve had anyone you wanted, Buck. You know that.”

“Didn’t want anyone. Wanted you. Always been so beautiful, Steve. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t argue,” Bucky rolled his eyes, but more seriously added, “I mean it.”

Palm square between his shoulder blades, drawing Steve closer, he continued, regretting that he hadn’t adequately elaborated all this before. Forthrightness — like plunging into the deep end. “Felt like I was protectin’ you when you were small. Know you didn’t need me to — you were Hell-bent on provin’ yourself. The sweetest eyes. The freckles on your shoulders. The way you laugh with your whole body.”

Steve’s eyes crinkled at the corners in the darkness. When he chuckled, his breath tickled Bucky's skin.

“D’ya know how much I fuckin’ love ya?” Bucky asked, swallowing. Vulnerability had always scared the shit out of him.

Steve nodded. “I know. And I love you.”

At some point, Steve had burrowed into his veins; had made a home for himself there; had burned into him. Maybe it had left a permanent scar. A scar that ached with familiarity when he’d fought Steve on the helicarrier. When Steve had said those words —  _ ‘then finish it. ‘Cause I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.’  _ Bucky had come to know it translated more to  _ ‘take my life, I’ll hand it to you. Do it. I love you.’ _

*

_ Waking up was disorienting, to say the least. _

_ Yeah, the ice was cold, but the world Steve had thawed out into — that hadn’t ever been any warmer. _

_ After a particularly hard day, he’d had a date with a punching bag. He’d hoped he’d be able to beat all his frustrations into an inanimate object, but all he’d ended up with were bleeding knuckles and an ache in his bones that felt lonelier than before. Leaving the gym after he’d cleaned up, he stepped out into a frigid January afternoon surprised to see snow was really starting to come down outside. And he didn’t know why, but that threw him.  _

_ (It had been snowing during the Fall.) _

_ Steve supposed he should go back home. No, not home, he corrected. To his  _ **_apartment._ ** _ He’d never be home again. Instead, he wandered the streets for a while, hands shoved deep into his pockets and hood up. It was unnerving — how much everything had changed.  _

_ Maybe it was intentional, or maybe his feet had taken him here on their own accord, but he found himself at a desolate memorial. Plaques commemorated the lives of fallen WWII soldiers. And yes, he had known he would see Bucky's name there carved into stone, missing in action — but it knocked the breath from his lungs all the same.  _

_ He sat down heavily and let his palm rest against the marble. It was a moment before he could speak. He knew Bucky wasn’t there. He knew they’d never found his body — not in all these years. (‘The mountain didn’t give up her dead’. That’s what a commanding officer said when the search team went out — Steve threw all the authority he had into that order. But the winter was cruel and all-consuming. There wasn’t a trace.) _

_ The part of him that was clinging to his mother’s faith thought that maybe Bucky could hear him at this monument. Maybe Bucky knew he was there trailing fingertips along his name, feeling the grooves of the letters against his skin.  _

_ James B. Barnes  _

_ “Hey, Buck. Bet you’re surprised to see me.” A sad overture — not nearly enough to hold the weight of what he was feeling. A pause, like part of him was hoping for a reply. Like maybe the wind would carry a hum, a whisper, a fragment of lost conversation. He strained his ears, but, of course, there was nothing but the distant buzz of the city. The pretending did nothing to quell the tightness in his chest. Frozen, brutal cold, chilled to the bone. Like the sun had gone out completely. Like he’d never be warm again. _

_ “‘s been a real long time. Sorry I didn’t visit sooner. Guess I was sleepin’,” Steve laughed to himself, humorless and dry and hurting. “It’s the funniest thing. Feels like it’s only been a few days. Since you — since losing you. Keep thinkin’ that I hear you. Keep reaching for you when I wake up in the mornin’. I can’t — Buck I can’t close my eyes without seeing you fall. They brought me back and — I had to lose you all over again.” _

_ It was hard to get the words out. There was no way out of the grief, only through. The bite of fingernails into his palm told him if this was his elegy for the dearly departed, he needed to lay everything out in front of him now. What more did he have to lose?  _

_ “I can’t sleep without remembering your laugh or the way your skin felt or — Buck. We were supposed to make it out together. God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” His breath hiccuped. “I let ya down.” _

_ And Steve sat, head in his hand, for a good minute and a half before he could continue. “And that’s the kicker,” he said, angrier. “I was supposed to be wherever you are, too. But instead I’m here. And I don’t wanna be. And it’s not fucking fair,” his voice was cracking and breaking. A tear dripped down off the tip of his nose. _

_ Harshly, Steve wiped his eyes on the back of his shaking hand, pulling himself together. “But I wanna ask ya somethin’. I.. I wanted to ask before.” It didn’t sound stupid, the way he thought it maybe should have, asking a ghost. If he could say it out loud, he could imagine it, just for a moment. “Would you marry me? I know it wouldn’t be official.” No, maybe there never would have been documentation, a piece of paper, but that wouldn’t have made it less real.  _

_ “It could be just for us. How’s that sound? I don’t — I don’t have a ring. But it’s the thought that counts, right? Tell ya what, you don’t have to answer now, but I expect one the next time I see ya.” And Steve did believe that. That maybe they’d see each other on the other side. That Bucky would have accepted his offer and they’d somehow get an eternity together in the next life. Oh God, why had he waited so long? What could they have become? _

_ “I love you, Bucky. I’ve loved you since we were only children. I should have  _ **_said_ ** _ it.” The silence. A falling tide receding into the darkness. Steve was caught in the wave, pulled below.  _

_ “I hope you knew.” He hoped Bucky died knowing he was loved. He kissed his fingertips then pressed them against the stone.  _

_ No valediction would ever be enough — he’d spend the rest of his life with this hole punched through his chest. _

_ Maybe Steve’s life was organized into epochs — before and after the Fall. Not before the  _ **_ice,_ ** _ as everyone kept saying — before the  _ **_Fall._ ** _ His life ended when Bucky’s did. He wasn’t who he could have been, who he should have been — he wasn’t even who he used to be. _

_ He didn’t let himself fall apart until he was back to his apartment, choking and sobbing in the shower, letting freezing water sting his skin. He wrapped his arms around himself like he could prevent his rib cage from being torn asunder; from shattering. _

*

Steve only panicked  _ briefly  _ in the morning when he couldn’t feel Bucky beside him in bed. But it all burned away in the new rising sun. Squinting in the light, he could tell from the airflow that the sliding door was open. A breeze fluttered the dark curtain and offered a reprieve from the muggy city summer. The air was marginally cooler here, four hours north of Brooklyn. Alpine was asleep at the foot of the bed, unbothered. Bucky was out smoking on the balcony under the pink-tinged sky, shirtless, black sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Elbows leaning on the railing, he looked out over Boston with a cigarette between his lips. The sight hit Steve like an ambush. 

Bucky was looking less gaunt — having finally,  _ finally _ , gained back some of his weight; some of his muscle. He looked  _ strong — _ built and sturdy and stormproof. It wasn’t like Steve hadn’t seen  _ all  _ of him, like he hadn’t gotten the opportunity to admire Bucky’s returning health, his strength. He’d seen it all up close, he just couldn’t get  _ over it.  _ The difference was night and day. 

Bucky’s body wasn't as  _ cold. _ His cheekbones weren’t as unsettlingly prominent. The darkness under his eyes had faded and any recent injuries were completely healed. Steve loved this — he loved the way Bucky lifted his face upward toward the sun, dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as cigarette smoke curled in tendrils. (It had been so long since Bucky had really  _ seen  _ the sun.) Steve loved the dimples at the bottom of his spine and his long legs and — 

“I can feel ya starin’ at me,” Bucky’s mouth formed a sly smile. Snuffing out the cigarette butt on the railing, he didn’t have to look over his shoulder to prove himself right.

Steve was  _ overcome  _ with fondness. He stretched lazily in the thin sheets, still naked from the night before; still reveling in the afterglow. Every time Steve thought he couldn’t  _ possibly  _ be any more in love, Bucky knocked him off his feet all over again.

The hardwood floor was cold under his bare feet as he pulled on a pair of shorts. Stepping out to the balcony, he slipped arms around Bucky's waist and pressed lips against the back of his neck. Bucky made a quiet hum of approval. 

“Don’t mean to stare, doll, you’re just so fuckin’ pretty.” Steve buried his head in the crook of Bucky's neck. Tobacco and spiced soap. Steve would never get tired of it — never get used to it as long as he lived — the way Bucky's ice blue eyes lit, the dimple in his chin, his pouty, downturned mouth. 

Bucky shook his head, reaching up behind him

to card his fingers through Steve’s sandy-blond hair. The steady sound of cars and early morning traffic felt enough like  _ his  _ city to be comforting. More relaxed than he had been in the better part of a hundred years, he sighed, “Think you’re makin’ me a mornin’ person, Stevie.”

(Steve very much doubted that Bucky was going to be joining him on 6 AM runs anytime soon, but he didn’t disagree.) 

“If  _ this _ is what real time off is like, I could get used to it,” Bucky continued, turning to face Steve. He was  _ so _ ready to focus on recovering — rather than just distracting himself. There were emotions he had to confront; to work through. There was a better version of himself he was yet to meet. It wouldn’t be  _ easy _ , but yes,  _ this _ was a fight that was worth it. Slipping a hand to Steve’s hip and running his thumb over the smooth skin there, the toned muscle, he felt goosebumps rise up despite the warmth in the air.

“What do retired people do? Should we join a knitting circle?” Steve joked.

“‘s not a bad idea,” Bucky chuckled. An infinitesimal pause, then, “I ever tell ya you’re my best friend?”

“It might’ve come up once or twice,” and Steve — after all this time — couldn’t help the skipped heart beat that came whenever Bucky’s Atlantic blue eyes flicked to his lips. He tipped Bucky’s chin up, leaned into him, perpetually in awe that he  _ could _ — that Bucky gave him his trust to carry. His mouth tasted like smoke and the sunshine over the city.

“I should go feed Alpine,” Bucky murmured in between kisses. “And we better get you inside. I think you’re sunburnt from yesterday.” He gave Steve a final kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“ _ Hey,”  _ Steve complained, leaning his forehead against Bucky’s. It had been  _ dark _ a majority of the time they were at the beach, for Chrissake. Steve most certainly was  _ not  _ sunburnt — but that had been an endless source of teasing in the summers of their youth. (He’d called Steve a cherry tomato, because he was  _ little  _ and red.)

“The serum didn’t cancel out your Irishness,” Bucky said, pinching his cheek gently. “See, you're red right now.”

Watching Bucky as he left, God, Steve was so in love. So in love. He could reconcile with the life they hadn’t gotten to live in exchange for  _ this  _ now. Through the survivors guilt and instability, wrong turns could still lead home. 

*

Some days Bucky went without speaking — not out of anger or spite. Some days words were too heavy. Some days Bucky needed to palisade himself off from things he feared he could break. Steve understood.

It wasn’t a jarring change in his personality. Even when they were younger, he withdrew into himself — Bucky had been distant since he was 16.

And some nights, he needed to climb into Steve’s arms on the couch — to bury his head against Steve’s chest; to let Steve’s heartbeat drown out the  _ noise _ . 

Steve would ask if he was feeling alright and Bucky would shake his head  _ no _ . Steve would ask “ _ not up to talkin?”  _ Bucky would shake his head again. And while Steve preferred his gallows humor over the dead air, that was  _ okay _ . He could talk and let Bucky listen. Bucky would speak in soft touches instead. A squeeze of the forearm: ‘ _ thank you’.  _ Brushes of lips on the jaw; chaste kisses: ‘ _ I love you’. _

(But those nights were getting fewer and further between.)

Bucky would break his silence with something that  _ hurt _ — that sunk into Steve like a rock into a lake. Something like “ _ all I ever cause is pain _ .” Steve would hastily shut him down, reminding Bucky how  _ untrue _ that was. The house plants were alive because Bucky watered them every day. Alpine had a warm, safe home because of him. 

Bucky would  _ promise  _ — in a way that broke Steve’s heart — that he would be  _ good. _ Steve would insist that he already  _ was. _

One ‘ _ quiet night’ _ , as Steve called them in his head, went like this: Bucky had been out on a walk in the sweltering August heat. When he’d come through the door, locking it behind him and tossing his keys on the counter, he was sullen. He didn’t stop to scratch the cat the way he usually did upon arriving home. He didn’t coo at her. He didn’t open his mouth in a mock roar in response to her meow the way Steve found so  _ endearing. _ Instead, he sat on the couch and maneuvered himself into Steve’s arms.

Setting his book down on the armrest, Steve shifted them both into a more comfortable position and propped his feet up on the coffee table. Bucky’s legs occupied the rest of the couch as he clung into Steve’s waist with head tucked into the crook of his neck. 

“What’s the matter?” Steve asked, stroking the back of his head. 

Bucky huffed a quiet sigh, closing his eyes. A nuzzle into Steve’s shoulder said ‘ _ can we talk about it later?’  _ Steve understood; he wouldn’t push. Bucky would talk about it when he was ready — whether in a few hours or a week. Bucky always let him in eventually.

“Hey Buck, remember when you used to read your favorite parts of those sci-fi books aloud to me?”

Bucky nodded; metal fingers fussed with a loose thread on the collar of Steve’s shirt. The room was relatively soundless, apart from the steady whir of the air conditioner and the muffled city noise.

“Could I read to you? Would you like that?” Steve asked, not patronizing, not infantilizing — just a tender offer. If Bucky wanted to sit in the silence, that would be okay too.

Bucky glanced down at the cover. Hemmingway’s  _ The Old Man and the Sea.  _ He nodded.

Clearing his throat, a little self-conscious of his own voice, Steve started reciting a passage. After a few minutes, he got into the steady measure of it, low and easy, running his palm up and down Bucky's back rhythmically as he went.

The cat jumped up onto the back of the couch to curl up for a nap. Steve tripped over a few words when Bucky reached out to let her nudge her head against his palm.

It was a story of misfortune and determination; of strength through hardships. An allegory on the condition of being human set to the crash of the waves. Steve did like this book quite a lot.

“ _ But man is not made for defeat, _ " Steve read. " _ A man can be destroyed but not defeated _ .” Bucky hummed, acknowledging the sentiment.

Steve didn’t stop reading until the sky was darkening blue-black just after sunset; until it seemed like Bucky had faded off into sleep, head tucked against Steve’s shoulder. If he was surprised when Bucky opened his tired eyes at his pause, he was even more surprised when Bucky opened his mouth.

“S’okay.”

“What’s that, babydoll?” Steve set the book on the arm of the couch face down, open to the page to keep his place.

“It’s okay. Makin’ my peace with it. I think. Still got shit to work though, but,” rough voiced, Bucky trailed off. Problems that couldn’t be solved with a .22, the things that had been done  _ to  _ him — Steve was right. He couldn’t have fought any harder than he  _ did _ . Hydra had tried to kill him off just like everything else. A victim — not the devil in the mirror, flinching at his reflection. Not a lonely set of bones. Not the wolves at the door. He was more than the sum of his parts.

Bucky still couldn’t decide what was worse: being forced to remember or being forced to forget. But today he was feeling  _ different,  _ deeper, more intensely. On his walk, he’d been imagining what it would’ve been like to swing a metal fist into Pierce’s smug face; imagining the crack of bone. But Pierce was dead — and that part of Bucky’s life was dead along with him. (And he wasn’t about to sit shiva for it.) Solace with introspection. And even  _ small _ changes in Bucky’s reactions to old triggers were things to celebrate.

Sam had told him once, on the balcony of the Tower apartment, ‘ _ Sometimes it’s better not to overanalyze everything you’ve ever done. Sometimes it’s better to just.. be.’  _

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure where it all had come from — but he understood now; that it was possible to hurt and heal at the same time. With these things being an unfortunate  _ part  _ of him, he knew he was probably never going to be at 100% again. (Bucky wondered if he would be lonelier without his demons.) But he could do this day by day. He was capable of good, his will was his  _ own _ — and that was  _ something. _ Steve would have called it a win.

“Stevie, I’m.. thank you.” He held Steve’s hand, played with his fingers. Often, Bucky worried he was placing too much of his burden on Steve’s shoulders — that he was taking too much. 

“What for?” Steve murmured, eyebrows knit. Steve’s voice was the anaesthetic to opiate the sting of his thoughts. A rush of blood to the head — dizzying.

“For not givin’ up on me. Know I’m difficult — but I’m tryin’,” Bucky said. Eventually, Bucky would repay all the kindness and love — he’d give it back to Steve ten times over. 

Steve felt like  _ weeping,  _ carding fingers through the back of Bucky’s short hair. “When I said  _ ‘end of the line _ ’, I meant it, pal. You an’ me. Whatever happens.” (All those years ago, Bucky's own words back at him. The most honest of pacts; through all the good and bad.)

“Baby,” Bucky murmured, looking up, grazing his thumb over Steve’s bottom lip.

“Yeah?” Steve’s eyebrows pulled up, true and crystalline.

Bucky  _ laughed _ . “No, I mean  _ you’re a baby.  _ I’m makin’ fun of ya.” Without the bite in it, what Bucky  _ meant _ was ‘you’re  _ all _ my words; you’re every sweet phrase in every language I know.’ And he knew  _ Steve knew it too  _ by the way he ducked his head to nose at Bucky's jaw.

_ Bucky  _ was  _ teasing  _ him. Steve chuckled, sniffled. He just — he never thought he’d get to have this. He’d only ever  _ prayed  _ that Bucky could get back to this point. Having  _ survived  _ all of his worst nights, Bucky was the  _ bravest _ man he’d ever known. He dimpled when Steve told him so — looked almost like he was going to  _ cry _ . Steve could have retaliated, called him a baby too. He didn’t.

Bucky was so resilient — learning how to let himself  _ be loved.  _ (And he loved back. reckless and  _ loud _ and soft and quiet.) They were, as they always were, on different boats but in the same storm weathering the journey back to each other — back  _ home.  _

“I’m proud of you,” Steve murmured against his hair. Steel blue eyes looked up at him — the safest place in the world. 

Thumb stroking the side of Steve’s neck, Bucky sighed contentedly, like he couldn’t get enough. “Say it again.”

So, of course Steve would continue offering him such sweet sentiments. He’d make sure Bucky would take them to heart; would brighten like a flower toward the sun. 

“I  _ love  _ you. And I’m  _ proud _ of you,” Steve restated, kissing against his temple; he wasn’t afraid of wearing the words out. Throughout the rest of the night, Steve said it — during black and white  _ I Love Lucy  _ reruns; on the balcony in humid air while Bucky smoked; in their bed, curled around each other. And every time Bucky replied, “I love you back, sugar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this story for myself around this time last year. I had no idea if I would ever have the guts to post it or if anyone would like it. Feels bittersweet now that it’s come full circle.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.” - John Milton, Paradise Lost

More days were good than bad. Bright afternoons, summer rain, starlit evenings — collected and bottled like fireflies in a jar for safekeeping. The sun burned away the cold and they had each other to hold through the bad nights.

Although, days were good, even when nightmares would pay visit and linger in dark tendrils through the mornings, shadow-hands around their throats. Days were  _ good _ , even when the two of them would disagree about foolish things. (Even when they would get on each other's nerves, or snap at each other — or when one would say  _ ‘don’t ‘baby’ me, I’m mad at you’  _ — they still kissed goodnight before bed.)

Days were good, even though Bucky’s hair grew too fast — less of an inconvenience and more of a shove off the ledge. His stability was a tight-rope walk — even if he did have better balance now. 

When Bucky woke one morning and stumbled, bleary-eyed into the bathroom, he was thrown to see the Soldier staring back at him in the mirror — the monster with  _ his face.  _ Pulling the drawers off their tracks in a frantic search for scissors — for anything — he sent their contents clattering to the floor. If he didn’t alter his appearance  _ immediately  _ — well, he didn’t  _ know _ what would happen, but his veins burned like goddamn razor wire. Panic-stricken, heart pounding, Bucky started hacking off his hair, letting the clumps fall into the sink. He’d thought — he’d  _ hoped —  _ he was over this. He’d thought he was far enough removed from the man he used to be, but today he couldn’t stand to look at his own fucking face. 

Abruptly, Steve pushed the door open — probably having heard all of the toiletries being strewn across the tiled floor. He’d been putting coffee on in the kitchen, sleepy and disheveled in boxers and a cotton T-shirt. He’d wanted to let it go for a moment; not to  _ look  _ for reasons to worry. But then Bucky hadn’t said anything when he called.

“Sorry — you weren’t answering,” he started shyly. Upon seeing the state Bucky was in, he came closer, placing a hesitant hand on Bucky’s tense back. “Hey. Breathe, pal. You want it all off?” He soothed.

Not turning to look at Steve, not even shifting his eyes to meet him in the mirror, Bucky nodded mutely. He didn’t stop chopping at the strands in his clenched fist. Besides the  _ snip snip  _ of the scissors, the whirring of the bathroom fan, no other sounds broke the quiet. Steve ran his palm over Bucky’s shoulder blades. He felt the muscles relax under his touch, felt tension dissipate.

“It okay if I help clean it up a little?” Steve meant it both in the way that Bucky couldn’t see the back of his head to make his haircut even and that the way Bucky was handling the scissors made him just a bit nervous. 

At the reluctant nod of Bucky’s head, Steve gently took the scissors from his hands to set them on the counter, figuring he could do a better job with the electric razor. Instructing Bucky to sit on the closed toilet seat, Steve rummaged in the cabinet for it.

Bucky wasn’t, at least, in a daze the way Steve had feared. He was still present and responsive enough to murmur a hand-wringing apology at Steve’s turned back. (A broken ‘ _ sorry’  _ that speared Steve in the side.)

“You’ve done nothin’ wrong,” Steve was quick to promise. “I’ll keep a few inches, that alright?”

Bucky agreed, turning his back to Steve, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. 

Steve didn’t push. He didn’t pry. Instead, over the monotonous buzz of the clippers, he said, “I know you know this — I don’t know if this makes it any better. No, not  _ better _ — more bearable, maybe.”

Bucky closed his eyes for a moment, blinked them open again.

“Your hair,” Steve reminded gently, “It’s different. Cut and regrown and cut and regrown enough that it’s new. Not the same as when you were in their custody.” All silence and falling-sky eyes, seeing Bucky looking so  _ lost _ was like swimming out to sea in a lightning storm. Nothing but thunderheads in the distance.

Steve chewed on the inside of his cheek briefly before continuing, “And skin. Skin cells regenerate every 27 days — I read that somewhere. Faster for.. people like us. But. I know it probably doesn’t help any. I know nothing will change what happened. But your skin, Buck — it’s skin they’ve never touched. Your nails, your hair; you’ve grown while you’ve been here. While you’ve been safe. While you’ve been  _ you _ . And you  _ are  _ you, babydoll. You’re  _ rebuilding _ yourself.”

Meaning every word, Steve would say  _ anything _ to make Bucky feel like his body was his own after years of invasive hands and forced compliance — even if his words didn’t count for much. If Steve’s  _ own _ anger was still present — if he still thought about every motherfucker who’d ever touched Bucky; if he still thought about killing them with his bare hands — he couldn’t imagine what  _ Bucky  _ felt.

Staring at a chipped tile in the wall, Bucky let out a shaky breath, but didn’t respond otherwise. His face was wet with tears — although, Steve didn’t mention it, and he didn’t wipe his eyes. He didn’t hide the flinch that came when Steve shut off the clippers and brushed a few loose hairs off his neck with soft fingertips, either. 

Steve chastised himself, making a mental note not to touch Bucky’s neck; and another note to keep an eye on the length of his hair. Not that he thought Bucky was incapable — Bucky was  _ more _ than able to look out for himself. But, Steve would offer all the support he could; would walk beside him through this.

“Sorry,” Bucky said again “I’m sorry.”

“What did I tell ya, pal?” Steve asked, hands on both of Bucky’s shoulders, avoiding his neck and running his thumb along the divot of his shoulder blade. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Bucky laid a hand over top of his.

“That’s right, doll,” Steve grinned. “Say it again for me.”

“I’m okay,” Bucky said more firmly, gravilly. (And Bucky thought  _ maybe _ he even believed it.)

*

Summer burned out, flickered away into autumn, bronze and molten.

September was spent in Wakanda, where the change of scenery made the events of the past year seem  _ marginally  _ less taxing; where Steve wasn’t shy about holding his hand and Bucky trusted that word wouldn’t precede them back to the States. There, they both felt a little freer — more like they could be who they really were. There, no one batted an eye at two men together.

The progression of his and Steve’s relationship didn’t come as a shock to Shuri or T’Challa — or any of the other citizens, for that matter. (He figured Steve’s persistent visits had given them away. The man was about as subtle as a gun.)

In the warmth, with Alpine trailing at his feet, he walked by the river with Steve like they used to — hand in hand and closer than before. Under the purple-gold sunset sky in the air that smelled like honeysuckle and optimism, Bucky thought he was  _ happy _ — even though it was kind of painful at first. Wakanda reminded him of things that hurt; of hiding, of not being himself. 

But what a  _ wonderful _ difference a year could make. Shuri had nearly  _ cried _ upon their arrival, seeing how well Bucky was doing — how much he had changed, how healthy he was. The first thing she did, as he and Steve stepped off the jet, was tell Bucky how  _ strong  _ he looked. The second thing she did was scold him with a bright smile and no weight behind her words, ‘ _ and what has happened to your hair? Oh, the children will be devastated.’ _

It must have been a shocking difference. The last time he’d seen her, Bucky had been begging to be shipped out in Cryo. How scared and sad he had been. How necessary it all was. Of course, the last time he’d been there, he was considerably  _ less  _ stable than he was now, but he’d had the wherewithal to forge some semblance of a human connection.

In the month he and Steve stayed, Bucky got to see some of the things that Shuri was working on in her lab. His eyes lit up in absolute delight. (He’d missed talking about science, taking things apart and figuring out how they worked. He hadn’t been able to  _ fully  _ appreciate it the first time.)

Bucky let Alpine, with his supervision, walk around with the goats — all of whom Bucky could swear remembered him. He and Steve would pick flowers and listen to the birds singing. Bucky would lay in the grass, watching the sunset and letting Steve draw him. In turn, he’d let Steve read some of the things he’d been writing — prose about a man who had loved a wild thing.

It felt like a honeymoon — maybe that’s close enough to what it was. It was the kind of thing that could live in his dreams — even if he very much doubted Steve actually wanted to  _ marry _ him; to tie himself to that beast of burden.

Wakanda was heaven, nevertheless, in a clap of thunder, in the majesty of a waterfall. Every time Bucky fretted they were overstaying their welcome, T’Challa reminded him they were not only great company, but  _ citizens _ — that they should come back any time. 

Leaving — the clouds over the ocean out of a jet window — that felt like a benediction.

*

In October, Bucky, with skepticism and Steve’s unwavering support, talked to a handful of therapists that were blatantly unequipped to deal with his situation. And that was fine. He understood. For all intents and purposes he shouldn’t be  _ alive _ . Psychologists were trained to prescribe medication that wouldn’t work on him; to offer advice he couldn’t follow.

The fact that Bucky was  _ willing _ to talk, however — that felt monumental.

As much as Bucky hated to admit it — Sam was easier to talk to; never pretending to know all the answers, or how he was feeling. Sam was a realist. (He talked to Bucky less like a therapist and more like, perhaps, a friend.) They had a standing call scheduled on Thursdays.

Whenever Bucky’s hands would shake, Steve would hold them, would kiss each knuckle in turn — both the human ones and the metal ones.

In October, Steve learned more Russian. Sometimes, he’d say a phrase to Bucky to see if he’d translated it correctly. More often than not, it was something dirty that would earn him a coy smile and a poke on the cheek. Steve would say something like, ‘ _ Buck, u tebya khoroshaya zadnitsa. Did I say that right?’  _ and Bucky would reply, ‘ _ I do have a nice ass, don’t I? _ ’

On Bucky's bad days, he just needed a little extra love and attention. On Steve’s bad days, Bucky gave it right back to him. Acts of service — because Steve so often felt like the world was on his shoulders. Bucky offered kind gestures like:

‘ _ I’ll cook tonight,’ _

_ ‘Don’t worry about the dishes — I got them,’ _

_ ‘You know you ain’t responsible for the rest of the world, right?’ _

That last phrase was often said when Steve was watching the news — shootings, natural disasters, random acts of violence. Steve would stare at the TV like he should have stopped it all somehow; like he held himself personally responsible for every bad thing that happened.

Bucky would shut the TV off, remind him he couldn’t fight a tornado. But, more seriously that he couldn’t be everywhere at once. And more  _ importantly _ , that he had done  _ more _ than his fair share. Then, Bucky would say something like,  _ ‘c’mon you big lug, get up. I’m gonna run you a bubble bath _ .’

Every time, Steve would stare sappily up at him and murmur, “ _ You gonna join me _ ?”

Steve’s own trauma didn’t go unnoticed. He tried to tough-guy through it, to hide with the front he'd favored in his youth — but he may as well have been made of glass; Bucky wasn’t fooled.

Especially when Steve woke up in the darkness, gasping and grasping at the thin cotton sheets. His heart slammed against his ribcage and he was sweating despite the cool air provided by the table-top fan Bucky kept on for the white noise.

In his dreams, the world was crumbling to pieces. There was a hole in the sky. Dust and smoke settled and there was no one left that he hadn’t let down. Steve stared up at the ceiling, letting silent tears pool at the corners of his eyes without bothering to blink them away, letting them burn and obscure his vision. The city lights out the bedroom window looked like they were dancing.

But the city was very much still there; traffic and people in spite of the late hour. The world was still turning without him for the time being.

Bucky didn’t have to ask — didn’t even have to open his eyes. He could tell from the breathing, or the grinding teeth, or the trembling. Either way, he made a quiet soothing sound, just a little breath, dragging Steve closer by the waist.

Tucking his head under Bucky’s chin the way he liked— the place that had always been his — metal fingertips skated down his spine and up over the blades of his shoulders. Maybe Steve wanted to say ‘sorry,’ but Bucky had told him enough times not to apologize. (‘If I can’t be sorry, you can’t be sorry either, Stevie.’)

“I gotcha, sugar,” Bucky promised. “We’re home. You’re safe.” (A comfort that made Steve’s heart constrict, not because he didn’t already know he was at home — but because the reminder of safety was so clearly a habit, a phrase Bucky picked up directly from him. His own words back to him — like they were somehow the most reassuring thing Bucky knew to say.)

Aware of the way he was clenching his jaw enough to hurt, Steve breathed in and out a few times, nerves not quite yet un-rattled, but nose against the pulse in Bucky’s neck. Glancing up, he trailed fingertips over Bucky's chin, over the stubble on his cheek. Bucky squinted one bleary eye open. “What are you doin’?”

“Makin’ sure you’re real,” Steve admitted. He felt the movement as Bucky swallowed like he wasn’t expecting that answer.

“Oh,” Bucky whispered, reaching for Steve’s hand to bring it to his chest, over his heart. “I’m here. Tell me what ya need. Hot chocolate? Wanna go down to the gym and hit somethin’?”

Some nights, the answer to both of those questions was yes, but Steve shook his head. “Wanna stay right here.” His voice was gruff and muffled, but he knew Bucky heard him just fine.

“I used to hum to you,” Bucky murmured, hand stuttering and stalling against his back. “Right? When you couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s right,” Steve smiled. Every happy retrieved memory Bucky shared with him felt like cascading sunbursts and sweetness and dew — this one even moreso.

“Is that.. would that be somethin’ you’d still like?”

Steve’s “yes, of course,” was thick with his refusal to cry again. How had Bucky known such profound violence and stayed so gentle? How was Steve lucky enough to have this man?

Bucky carded fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. It was soft, like Bucky was wary of his own voice. And Steve didn’t quite recognize the song, but it may as well have been his favorite. Within 10 minutes, he’d drifted off again, greeted by kinder dreams.

The autumn was full of  _ The Twilight Zone  _ reruns; of trying to cook and Chinese takeout. He and Steve did both learn how to knit — and crochet, and needlepoint. Steve made several pairs of socks and a hat. Bucky joked that  _ ‘those woulda come in handy when we didn’t have any fuckin’ heat. _ ’

Bucky wrote — to get things out of his head and onto paper. And whenever he’d run errands, he’d zip Alpine up in his jacket and take her with him. (She was still little enough to fit, though she wouldn’t be for long.) Bucky was even considering taking some  _ classes _ , growing a garden, learning about space and science and psychology. 

“You can do whatever you want to do,” Steve insisted. Sam had told him that same thing once — he was  _ adamant about it.  _ And he was  _ right _ . He and Steve both could find a place in the world. They could do anything — it was hard won and well deserved.

Steve mentioned maybe wanting to do some work for the VA — volunteering, helping people. That kind of thing was  _ perfect  _ for him.

Bucky knew Steve would never shy away from helping where he was needed. Steve would still help out Nat and Sam — if they needed him. Yes, of course he would fight again. He was a hero. It was what he did. But it was okay — Bucky knew what he was signing up for. And maybe Bucky himself would even help out, too, every now and then. There would undoubtedly be fights in the future — and then there would be nothing better than coming home to each other. 

Bucky imagined turning up on their doorstep, arriving a little beat up, but with a bouquet of flowers. He imagined _Steve_ _coming home_ from a mission and kissing him silly before he’d even gotten through the door. He imagined starting the shower for him, having him take off tactical gear. He imagined falling into the safety of their bed. 

The fact of the matter was if someone came looking for them; if someone picked a fight —  _ whatever _ happened, they could handle it. And it would be okay.

So many plans for the new year — for the future. (For once.) Because Steve had spent his childhood thinking he wouldn’t make it to adulthood. He’d spent his twenties believing the war would take him. He’d spent up until  _ recently _ playing savior for the world. He had said once, on a chunk of land threatening to fall from the sky; under the hostilities of an artificially intelligent monster,  _ ‘I got no plans tomorrow night _ .’ He never did. Never had plans. Now, he figured, it was high time he made some.

November’s glow came with a sleepy haze and apartment hunting and the certainty that they’d found a place in Brooklyn. Bucky liked the sound of that; of starting over in the place he’d met Steve several lifetimes ago. (And he knew Steve felt the same.)

Bucky still thought about dying sometimes — about leaving on his own terms, but only in passing. (He could step to his demons.) These days, he had some pretty compelling reasons to stay; Steve asleep with the cat on his chest, places to visit, brunch with Natasha next time she was in town. The stars on a clear night, healing like the changing of seasons, Steve scratching his back when they were cuddled up on the couch or in bed in the blue hours before sunrise.

Most days, though, Bucky couldn’t believe he almost  _ missed _ all of this — all the good parts. He couldn’t believe he almost called it off before it had the chance to get  _ better _ . As the last amber light of autumn froze into another winter, Bucky didn’t find himself dreading the cold. 

When December arrived, it found them back in New York, in a cozy apartment. They were all settled and moved into their forever home. Not too  _ luxurious,  _ not on WWII veterans’ pensions — but just right. Blues and grays, dark wood furniture and a nice leather couch, a kitchen big enough for Bucky to bake in, a spare room for guests — Steve couldn’t have dreamed up something better. 

‘ _ Home is home _ ,’ as Sam once told him. (And Sam was  _ right _ .) Brooklyn was invariably home — he still felt like if he stared at the skyline long enough it would change. And while the city never reverted back to the buildings he’d known in his youth, the view was beautiful. Especially in this weather — frozen silvers and whites and grays. It was a bad habit, the way Steve never moved in completely; not in DC, not at Stark’s, not in any of the safe houses. But he was  _ excited  _ to do so here. 

Pictures and art were nicely framed and hung up on walls, house plants were placed in window sills where they could grow toward the sun, knickknacks and books were properly sorted and put onto shelves. No cardboard boxes pushed into corners — not anymore.

It was snowing again, but now Steve didn’t fear that far-away look in Bucky’s eyes when the weather turned bad. He found his happiness in freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, and Alpine sleeping on the floor, and music playing over the speakers. He reveled in the warm scent of winter fire and nutmeg; in laying in bed and enjoying Bucky’s company. Steve was starting, even, to grow out a retirement beard — much to Bucky’s _ delight _ . His hair, too, was a slightly darker shade of blond; was a little longer and starting to flare out at the nape of his neck. (Bucky said it reminded him of a ducktail.)

The quiet — they needed this quiet so badly. They needed this time. The winter was for them — only theirs.

*

Bucky woke up from a nap on the couch one lazy evening in the beginning of December. Jolting with the undercurrent of fear _ ,  _ memories slipped like water from his hands — fragments of past deadened and numb, like a severed nerve. In his dream he’d watched Steve drop his shield at Stark’s feet, felt the stomach-sinking dread of limping away from a fight. Bucky hadn’t  _ meant _ to fall asleep, but he and Steve had a late night followed by an early morning. They’d gotten up to take a walk as the sun was rising. (Steve had looked awfully pretty in that light.)

Trauma was always there — the moon in daylight, obscured by brighter things. He shook it off, though, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. Wrapped up in a blanket — one that he was sure hadn’t been draped over him before he’d fallen asleep — he heard Steve in the kitchen speaking softly to the cat. 

“I know you want some, pal, but you can’t have the potato.”

_ Meow. _

“It’s not  _ cooked _ yet, honey,” Steve laughed. 

Bucky craned his neck to peek over the armrest of the couch. Perched on a barstool at the kitchen island, tail flicking back and forth, Alpine was impatiently watching Steve peel potatoes with steady motions of a knife. (A knife that he no longer had to keep hidden.) The radio played softly enough to be considerate of Bucky’s nap. It was set to the oldies station; Steve’s favorite. Sinatra was crooning about being home for Christmas — that one ached with the casualty of war. 

And while Bucky didn’t celebrate, he did  _ love _ how happy this season made Steve, with the sleeves of his cable-knit forest green sweater pushed up past his elbows and little gray and white reindeer-patterned socks. Bucky remembered the two of them in the 30’s, looking into shop windows as the snow fell; he remembered the lights in the storefront of the five and dime reflecting in Steve’s wonder-filled eyes. He remembered wrapping his scarf around Steve’s neck because he was both shaking from the cold and insisting that he wasn’t ready to go home quite yet. And sharing gelt with Steve during their walks to school on crisp mornings. (Steve loved chocolate and it was more expensive than he could afford.) Bucky remembered carrying Steve’s books so that he could unwrap the gold foil with little mittened hands, rosy-cheeked and laughing.

He remembered how, during the war, winter would muffle sound and make everything quiet — how hard he had to fight the instinct to bundle Steve up, to get him warmer. (Steve was  _ fine —  _ he was plenty warm.) He remembered snow in the trenches, in England. He remembered sitting together with the Howlies, smoking and reminiscing on respective holidays of their youth — on the things they missed like turkey dinners and nieces and nephews; the dames they’d left back home. (Rebecca had written him a letter with a picture of all the girls together — Bucky missed his sisters. And maybe his mother’s cooking.)

Bucky  _ still _ missed all those things — but now the love of his life was in the kitchen humming Christmas carols under his breath, and talking to their cat like she was a person. Nostalgia was a liar, a trap. This life was  _ better _ .

Winter in the city was still the same. Street vendors still sold roasted chestnuts, colorful lights still wrapped around balconies, geese still cawed and traveled south to flee the cold. And the sun still set  _ far _ too early. It was barely 4:30 and the light had already begun to fade. (Short days made Bucky  _ tired  _ like they always had.)

Taking the blanket with him, draped over his shoulders, Bucky padded into the kitchen, a little pouty and sleep-disoriented. (He didn’t  _ like  _ naps, didn’t like how they made him feel.) He walked up behind Steve and wrapped his arms around his waist. 

“We’re too permissive with her,” Steve noted, smoothing a hand over Bucky’s forearm, “I think she’s gettin’ an attitude problem.”

“I wonder where she learned it from,” Bucky murmured against Steve’s back, then peeked over his shoulder to the counter. “Are you.. are you making latkes?” Was that tonight? Bucky really needed to start keeping better track of days.

“Tryin’ to, at least,” Steve chuckled. “I hope that’s okay.”

Bucky could have made a joke about the times when Steve could barely lift a frying pan. He could have teased him, but he was just a little choked up. “Thank you,” he said instead, and kissed Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve shrugged. “Course.”

A new song started, more upbeat than the last, and Bucky perked his drowsy head up. “Dance with me,” he drawled, shucking off his blanket to set it on the seat next to Alpine.

Puzzled, Steve turned to him, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Right now?”

“I’ll help ya cook, in a minute. Just dance with me, please. One song?” With a sly smile, Bucky took the towel out of Steve’s hands and tossed it on the counter. Domestic sweetness. “C’mon, it’s  _ Hanukkah.  _ You have to be nice to me.”

“I’ll step on your toes,” Steve complained, but he made no move to resist. He let Bucky take his hands; let himself be pulled in, chest to chest. 

Lips a hairsbreadth away from his ear, looping an arm gently around Steve’s waist, Bucky promised, “I’ll go easy on ya, ace. Put your hand on my shoulder.” 

_ ‘I never cared much for moonlit skies _

_ I never wink back at fireflies _

_ But now that the stars are in your eyes _

_ I'm beginning to see the light’ _

(And no, swing dancing wasn’t at all Steve’s strong suit, but the song, at least, wasn’t so fast. And it was nice to be so close — Bucky was still sort of sleepy and warm. He’d never refuse him.) 

_ ‘I never went in for afterglow _

_ Or candlelight on the mistletoe _

_ But now when you turn the lamp down low _

_ I'm beginning to see the light’ _

“You’re gettin’ better at this, sugar,” Bucky murmured, laughing as Steve spun him and dipped him — getting bold. It had been nearly a year since they’d danced at all, back when he hadn’t even been completely present. Regardless of how clunky it was at first, Steve found his footing. Bucky didn’t get his toes stepped on even once. 

_ ‘Used to ramble through the park _

_ Shadowboxing in the dark _

_ Then you came and caused a spark _

_ That's a four-alarm fire now’ _

Bucky was happy.  _ Really  _ happy — not just distracted from sadness. It was like falling downward at terminal velocity but landing on something  _ soft. _

_ ‘I never made love by lantern-shine _

_ I never saw rainbows in my wine _

_ But now that your lips are burning mine _

_ I'm beginning to see the light’ _

And after the song was over, Steve dropped his head to Bucky’s shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. (Because that’s where he belonged. Like when sometimes he’d fall asleep forgetting he was too big now to  _ comfortably _ fit under Bucky's chin — but Bucky kept him there all the same. Protected. Cherished.)

The more things changed — the more they stayed the same. Two boys dancing in a kitchen in Brooklyn on a dark winter night. 

He kissed Steve’s temple. (Poetic, in a way — kisses in the most vulnerable places.)

Halfway through a new song, Steve made a move to pull back, but Bucky held tighter. 

“Don’t you have a candle to light, babydoll?” Steve scratched blunt fingernails over his back, a soft laugh tickled Bucky’s ear.

“Yeah,” Bucky hummed. “I’ll get to it. Just.. let me stay here for a minute longer.”

*

That December, they spent their evenings drinking hot cocoa and watching cheesy movies —  _ all _ of the Disney ones they’d missed, though Steve preferred the oldest films. 

One evening in particular, they diverted from the typical selection and watched the Charlie Brown Christmas special, though Bucky did comment that he didn’t like that one as much —  _ ‘kid’s friends are so mean to him.’ _ Darkness was starting to descend, pressing in on the glass and leaving Steve to savor a few last glimpses of falling snow in the idyll of the city. A cinnamon candle burned in the kitchen and white string lights blinked cheerfully from the balcony and above the TV. Alpine was in the corner batting at a little red bauble from the tiny tree, rolling it back and forth between her nimble paws.

Steve was kind of distracted — only half watching the movie because Bucky was on the cushy leather couch with him, lying on his chest. Fuzzy socks and perpetually cold feet. Sprawled out with a leg hooked over him, Bucky traced patterns on his abdomen absentmindedly, hand up under his sweater for the innocent comfort of skin on skin contact between sending replies to Natasha’s texts. Now and then, Bucky's phone would buzz against Steve's chest where he’d set it for safekeeping. The blanket was pulled up to Bucky’s chin — a deep cranberry, navy blue, and white one he’d recently knitted for Steve. (Extra thick yarn — to keep him warm. It was  _ supposed  _ to be a Christmas gift, but Bucky couldn’t wait.) 

Steve remembered this time the year prior being so  _ different _ , so volatile. Bucky had been struggling and then Bucky had been  _ gone.  _ But that felt  _ miles _ from where they were now. Steve remembered years before that — Decembers spent working or  _ alone _ . Decembers he would have spent frozen. (Ones Bucky would have spent frozen too, in different ice.)

He remembered scraped knees, losing baby teeth, and stories about scary creatures under the bed. He remembered his Ma insisting, ‘ _ I’ll hear no more about the monster in your room, Steven. The two of ya need tae stop frightening each other or you’ll never get tae sleep tonight.’ _

He thought about the December after his Ma had died. The first Christmas without her had been the hardest. 

_ Bucky had spent the day with him, trying to distract him. He even offered to go to midnight mass with him — insisting he didn’t want Steve to be alone. Steve opted to stay in, though. He wasn’t about to make Bucky sit in a church for 2 hours, and he didn’t feel much like  _ **_rejoicing._ ** _ He didn’t feel like harking any herald angels. He’d say a couple of Our Fathers and call it a night.  _

_ They’d both ended up a little buzzed — it was a special occasion, after all. Or so Bucky had insisted. (Steve didn’t think it was all that special, but he knew Bucky was trying his best to help.) Even bundled up under quilts and wearing thick wool socks, Steve was shivering. When Bucky climbed into bed, he complained that Steve must be cold-blooded, part lizard, perhaps; and he knew Bucky was trying to coax a laugh out of him, but he didn’t feel like there was any air in his chest. _

_ He couldn’t see  _ **_well_ ** _ through the dark, but could hear Bucky’s voice. Once they were face to face and close enough that he couldn’t run from the question, Bucky asked, “How are ya?” _

_ “’m fine,” Steve affirmed, brushing his hair out of his tired eyes. “Better now.” (Now that you’re here, he thought, but didn’t say.)  _

_ Bucky didn’t sound like he believed him, necessarily, but he was a good enough friend to go along. “Here —,” he took Steve’s thin, freezing hands and held them for a moment in his own. Then, with a devious glint in his eye and a smirk, Bucky pulled Steve’s hands up under his thin cotton undershirt and pressed them firmly to his chest.  _

_ “Bucky!” He yelped, surprised, flinching like he’d been shocked. _

_ “You’re fine,” Bucky laughed, speaking slowly with the listless lull of whiskey, just barely tightening his grip on Steve’s wrists. “Just warm your hands. You’re like ice.” _

_ Steve could have blamed the alcohol or the cold — but he couldn’t come up with a single complaint. (He really didn’t want Bucky to let go.) Relaxing his hand, he placed his palm flat along Bucky's side; against smooth skin, and shifted closer to face him. Steve felt the curve of his rib cage and the pull of muscle when Bucky lifted an arm to drape it around him. There, tucked under Bucky’s chin, sharing body heat, Steve was definitely a lot warmer — cheeks burning like a city on fire.  _

Even after all these years, Steve held that memory close to his heart — all of it; all the time they stole to be together in their youth, in war-torn Europe, in  _ this _ century. Bucky shifted against his chest and looked up at him, blinking through thick eyelashes and a hot-chocolate induced sleepy haze. The movement brought Steve back. The TV must have been playing movie credits for a few minutes without him noticing — he’d been staring blankly at the screen. 

“You okay? Lost ya there for a second,” Bucky mused, kissing his jaw. “Your heart’s beatin’  _ really  _ fast.”

God, Steve was normally so  _ impetuous;  _ so full of unbridled rapture like a torrential downpour, like a  _ hailstorm.  _ He was perpetually ready and willing to fight every motherfucker in the US government, to knock out a fascist, to throw a shield at a cop. Intense in every aspect of his personality, he’d always been so  _ all-or-nothing _ — caution-to-the-wind. But right now, his jaw felt wired shut. (Maybe caring for Bucky this year had made him  _ softer;  _ more patient, more careful when he needed to be. Or maybe Bucky loving  _ him _ had done that.)

He pressed his cheek to the top of Bucky’s head. “I’m fine, babydoll. I’m just thinkin’.”

“‘bout what?” Bucky asked. The end of his nose was cold as he nuzzled back into Steve’s neck.

Steve swallowed — didn’t say anything. ‘ _ Bout you _ ,’ he thought.  _ ‘About how nothing could ever be the same if you weren’t here.’ _

He’d wanted to have this conversation earlier that morning — it had started snowing sometime during the previous night and they’d bundled up to walk to the frozen lake. It was beautiful, dusted in white with bare trees, their branches ice-heavy and sparkling. Although, with Steve’s cheeks December-flushed, his hat pulled down over his ears, and the ice crunching under their feet, he thought maybe it would have been a  _ sin  _ to disturb the quiet. Bucky had smiled bright enough to melt the snow, and Steve had lost every ounce of his nerve. 

But he’d do it —  _ now _ ; right now. Sarah Rogers didn’t raise a little  _ bitch.  _ Steve didn’t know if this was  _ romantic enough,  _ if he should be making a grander gesture — but that day had been so  _ good.  _ And the two of them had never needed flashy things _.  _ Bucky valued his honesty above a lot. So, he just needed to  _ ask,  _ even though this felt fragile — not like glass, but like a bomb. Overthinking and re-planning was a waste of  _ time.  _ (He was so afraid of losing any more time.) If Steve had learned  _ anything  _ from the past, it was the impermanence of life, the importance of speaking feelings into words.

Hand halting the circular pattern he’d been running against Bucky's shoulder, Steve opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Hastily, Bucky sat up, hand against Steve’s chest, just over his racing heart. “Steve?”

_ C’mon, Rogers. Pull it together.  _

“I.. I sat at your grave once,” he started, stuttering. (He remembered crying on a gray January afternoon. And then for three days afterwards in an empty apartment — not that anyone cared. Not that anyone came looking.) 

_ That _ did nothing, evidently, to soothe Bucky's worry. Blinking down at him, with a hand flat on his chest and a crease in his eyebrows, Bucky made a small, confused sound.

Steve stumbled a moment and winced.  _ Well done, great start. Fucking hell. Try again.  _ He was normally so  _ good _ with speeches; so good at rallying troops. Why couldn’t he fucking speak?

“I, uh, knew you weren’t there, but. I asked you. Anyway, I’m askin’ again,” Steve reached up and brushed a strand of Bucky’s hair out of his eyes as comprehension drew across his features. 

Steve knew he wasn’t a perfect man — not by a fucking long shot. He’d made so many mistakes, but  _ this  _ was the one thing he was sure of; the one thing he’d never once doubted. He didn’t know where he belonged, but it was wherever Bucky was. Cautiously, he slipped out from under the knitted blanket, out from Bucky’s arms, and scooted off the couch. He sank to his knees — devout, solemn sanctity. A parallel, a mirror of where they had been all those years ago when Bucky had promised him safety. Scrambling into a sitting position after him, Bucky braced one hand on the armrest. 

“Wanted to ask a million times before that,” Steve said, hoping the seriousness of his tone conveyed how  _ much  _ he meant it. They couldn’t go back; they could only go forward. North wind howled against the window but they were safe and warm. Although, Steve was frozen in place and suddenly too hot in his sweater. One hand on Bucky’s knee, he steadied himself, reaching into his back pocket.

Bucky stared at him, mouth fallen open.

“Have the ring this time and everything,” Steve grinned, “Ma left me a claddagh — think maybe she  _ knew _ I’d give it to ya.” (It had been his grandfather’s — a family heirloom. It had taken him  _ a long, long time  _ to track it down, to figure out what had happened to it. But Steve wasn’t a quitter.)

He didn’t have a box for it. He just offered it in his open palm. A gold band with the outside engraved in a series of entwined Celtic knots and a pair of outstretched hands holding a heart and crown. 

“ _ Steve —,”  _ Bucky murmured, more seriously.

“Bucky Barnes — I don’t know shit about what the future’s gonna be like. I don’t know what  _ tomorrow’s _ gonna be like. And I can’t promise much of anything with certainty except to love you. And if — if all we can do is love each other and try to stick around for a long time — that’s good enough for me. I hope that’s good enough for you, too. I’d understand if that’s not what you want, but —“

But Bucky was  _ beaming,  _ dimpling. “Go on and  _ ask _ me, will ya?”

“Do you wanna  _ marry _ me?” Steve said this like it was the only thing he knew. Just the way it was. The world would turn on its axis. The autumn would always freeze to a silver winter. Stars would burn out and fall — and he would love Bucky. (He was maybe a  _ bit _ of a hopeless romantic at heart.)

“You mean it?” Bucky asked, more tentative. Like he feared for a fleeting moment that Steve holding him to the light like this would illuminate all the imperfections.

(Broken pottery repaired— cracks mended with gold.)

“I know we’ve never been the type to need titles —,” Steve started, knelt in front of him, baring his entire battered soul in his open palm. Bucky wasn’t even looking at the ring — he was searching Steve’s face.

“ _ Forever _ ,” Bucky's voice was unsteady, but it wasn’t a question with those enormous, honest eyes. Bucky looking at him like that — it felt like the universe knew him by his name.

Steve said, “As long as I’m breathing. As long as you’ll have me.”

And then Bucky was leaning forward and kissing him before he could get another word out, hands cupping his face. Even though, still on one knee, the position was a little difficult and almost threw him off balance, even though Bucky tasted like salt because he was crying — it was lovely; Arcadian.

(Bucky thought maybe  _ he  _ had asked first in their past life.) 

History written and rewritten overtop of itself. Forged on chewing gum and pinkie-promises. Some things were built to last. Some things were fireproof. 

“Is that a yes?” Steve mumbled against his mouth. Bucky nodded, running a thumb over the stubble on his cheek, slipping a hand to the back of his neck to pull him back in. 

“Yes, of course it is, dumbass.”

“Really?” Steve sighed.

Bucky leaned his forehead against Steve’s. “I’m already wearin’ your name around my neck. Were you really worried I’d say no?” He asked. (What he meant was ‘ _ I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours, and I always have been’.) _

Steve was a little breathless, a little starry-eyed. “That’s fair,” he acknowledged. The time in the war hadn’t counted for any less. He’d never diminish the magnitude of it. “We can have a real ceremony, Buck — real documentation. It’s legal now. Or…or we could have it be just for us. If…if you wanna keep the government out of our bed that’s  _ more _ than fine, too. Anything is fine,” Steve was babbling, he knew. He couldn’t stop.

Bucky kissed him quiet, knocking him over onto the floor between the coffee table and the couch. Steve caught him around the waist with the hand clutching the ring for safekeeping; with a tiny  _ oof,  _ he pulled them chest to chest. Staring for a moment, he cupped Bucky's face — because as much as it was also the other way around, Bucky had delivered him from the same darkness; led him back from the same abyss. His angel-eyed tether to the present, the hammer of his heart, the impetus for his habits, his  _ catalyst _ . Always had been.

“Anything. We’ll figure it out,” Bucky agreed, smiling into another kiss. And another. And another. 

Eventually, Bucky helped Steve up off the floor. Letting Steve fumble to slip the ring on his finger, Bucky was staring down at his shaking hand. Gold band accented with the gold in his arm. “It’s real pretty, Stevie.”

Steve had to clear his throat; he was getting choked up. “Looks good on you, doll.” A beautiful ring for a beautiful boy. He imagined his Ma would have been very happy about where that ring ended up.

He could practically hear the exchange in the kindest recesses of his imagination, with warmth in his chest filling up his ribcage. If she was still living, he’d sit her down and say, ‘ _ Ma, I’m in love.’  _ And she’d say, ‘ _ So ya are.’  _ Steve would say, ‘ _ It’s Bucky.’  _ And his Ma wouldn’t miss a beat; she’d answer, ‘ _ aye, so it is _ ,’ and cup his face in her hands. She’d smile and kiss him on the forehead like she’d known all along. His Ma, God rest her soul — unwaveringly supportive.

*

Bucky certainly liked his metal arm a lot  _ more  _ now that there was a pretty ring on it. He couldn’t  _ stop  _ looking at it. The next day, upon noticing him admiring it, Steve said, “Listen, if you wanna tell people — or the world, or not, or never — I’ll follow your pace, doll.”

In response, he squished Steve’s cheeks, peppering kisses all over his face just to see him blush. The details weren’t as important — he’d run off to Vegas with Steve  _ tomorrow,  _ if he asked. The commitment part was important. (Bucky knew Steve was good for his word.) 

Those two years he’d spent hiding in Romania; hiding from Steve — whom he remembered and loved and missed. His sacrifice, his one selfless act — to keep his distance so Steve would be safe. All that time alone.

Bucky sent a picture of the ring on his finger to the team group chat. Sam texted back a heartfelt congratulations. Natasha sent the same sentiment, followed by a line of emojis that he, blushing, had to explain the meaning of to Steve. 

Not wanting to wait, they decided on something small and set it tentatively for the upcoming January. They’d done  _ enough _ waiting. It wasn’t a hard decision — they were both comfortable keeping it between them and their close friends. People prying into their lives, the mess and media frenzy — it seemed like a lot. Though, Bucky did mention that if, far in the future, Steve wanted to casually drop the word ‘husband’ in a mission briefing to stun some politicians — well, he’d absolutely be on board with that. 

He remembered his father making a comment, seventy some years before — that he would never be happy; would never know what  _ real  _ love was, being queer. Bucky had asked, at the time — when he’d had enough chutzpah, enough  _ fire  _ in his blood — what gave his father the authority to speak about  _ love.  _ (The backhand in response had left Bucky with a bruised cheek, but he wouldn’t have taken it back.) 

If his past self could see this… How  _ wrong  _ his father had been. Bucky knew what  _ he _ had was far more real than two people buried states apart because they couldn’t  _ stand each other. _

Bucky knew he was so  _ pathetically  _ in love. From the first time he’d helped Steve up after he’d been shoved in the school yard. After he’d introduced himself as James, but Steve already knew a James in his own class a year below. So Steve had asked for his middle name instead and subsequently decided Buchanan was too hard to say. It felt — after hearing Steve say it — like Bucky had  _ always _ been his name. He’d known from that moment that he never wanted to see a day where Steve Rogers wasn’t his friend.

Comfort and peace. This felt like a dream — Bucky was living in his wildest dreams. It was like closing his eyes and holding onto the last wisps of sleep except this was  _ real _ , and this was  _ his.  _ Maybe they’d never have a white picket fence type of life but that was overrated. With Steve holding his hand, the world didn’t feel so wrong.

(Steve had said to him, once, in the dark — when Bucky thought he had been long since asleep —  _ ‘if we don’t get heaven, if heaven ain’t for people like us _ ...’ Bucky hadn’t let him finish that thought. He’d turned over and said right back,  _ ‘heaven’s anywhere I get to love you, sugar. _ ’ Being gay was probably a footnote in the laundry list of their sins, but he meant every word.)

He was working on getting Steve a ring, too. One made from vibranium — the same gorgeous, shiny black-and-gold as his arm. He’d sent Shuri a text that read ‘ _ so, I’m getting married _ .’ Her response came immediately after. Three messages in quick succession. The first said, ‘ _ I thought you were married?’  _ The second said, ‘ _ yes, I’ll make the ring.’  _ And the third was a row of smiley faces and confetti emojis.

Bucky had started singing in the shower, the way he  _ used _ to sing before he’d lost his reasons to. Voice carrying over the water, he’d finish a rendition of Mr. Brightside or an equally catchy pop song from the radio, or one he remembered from the 40’s. The first time, when he’d stepped back out into the bedroom with a towel around his waist, he acted like he hadn’t noticed Steve grinning sappily and wiping his teary eyes on the back of his hand. Steve busied himself with  _ pretending  _ he’d been making the bed the whole time rather than listening in. He’d given Steve a kiss on the cheek as he passed on the way to look for clothes in the dresser. 

*

Natasha arrived on Christmas, with pie and gifts in tow. (And a little cat carrier. Bucky had been texting her pictures of Alpine and she’d asked if she could bring Liho for a play date.)

Congratulating the happy couple, Natasha was yelling ‘ _ pozdravleniya _ ,’ and kissing both of their cheeks before she was entirely through the door. (She also demanded to know if she was invited to the wedding, tacked onto the end of a nicer sentence.) The enthusiasm took Steve off guard, but not unpleasantly so.

“You know what, Romanoff?” Bucky said, with a laugh, “you’d better be there — you’re the best woman.”

“You cryin?” Steve teased, pulling her into a hug.

“I don’t cry, I’m Russian,” Natasha insisted with tears welling in her eyes. “I’m just  _ happy  _ for you.”

And when Sam arrived ten minutes later, with cookies made from his mom’s recipe, shouting merry Christmas and happy Hanukkah, he was made best man, of course. They couldn’t have had it any other way.

As night fell, they all sat around the dinner table enjoying turkey and potatoes and wine. They talked about how Sam was working on some things in DC; how Nat had been undercover recently in Reykjavik. It was easy, catching up. It was nice. The two cats, even, were the best of friends within an hour. Natasha noticed them curled up together on the back of the couch.

After dinner, there was coffee to drink and pumpkin pie to eat, there were games to play and gifts to open. Sam and Steve were in a particularly enthusiastic debate about the rules of dominoes and whether or not Steve had actually won on a technicality when Bucky excused himself to go smoke on the balcony. 

The year before, being out there alone would have made him uneasy. He would have felt eyes on him; would have feared retribution. Now he knew if anything happened, he could  _ handle  _ it. A few moments later he heard the sliding glass door open and close behind him. 

“Hey, kid,” he said without turning around. “Thought you hated the smell of smoke.”

“I do,” Natasha shrugged. “Wanted to talk to you, though, if you have a minute.”

Bucky nodded for her to go on.

“Are you nervous?” she asked, standing beside him with her back against the railing. She took a sip of her coffee, shoving her other hand into the pocket of her leather jacket in the cold night air.

A slow smile spread across Bucky’s face and he said ‘ _ no _ ’ without any hesitation. Bringing his cigarette to his lips, he leaned his elbows against the railing and looked out over the city lights. He could hear cheers and complaints coming from inside the glass door — Steve had won, evidently. 

“No, of course. You shouldn’t be,” Natasha assured, brushing her hair back from her face. “I used to wonder about the kind of person who’d be able to keep up with Steve Rogers — but this makes sense.”

Bucky chuckled, turning his head to exhale the smoke away from her.

“You know, that’s all I’ve ever wanted for him. To get a life — to find a person to spend it with. And I’ve never told you this, but when he found out you were alive — we were sitting in an armored car and I was 90 percent sure we were all about to die. The look on his face…” Natasha took another sip from her mug and shook her head. “I could have set fireworks off under his nose and he wouldn’t have even  _ blinked _ . Just kept talking about you. And that’s when I knew he wasn’t gonna go get a life — he was gonna chase after you.”

Nat chuckled. Her breath made clouds in the air. “I’ll be honest; I didn’t think he had a chance in hell. And I  _ told  _ him that. Tried to set him up with a SHIELD agent. But his mind was made up.” She nudged Bucky with her shoulder. “I like this ending better.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, softly. “I do, too.”

The four of them spent the rest of the night, and well into the early hours of the morning, eating far too many desserts, drinking more mulled wine, and playing increasingly rowdy games. It didn’t help that they were all  _ more  _ than a little competitive and unnaturally good. Natasha had to talk the boys out of playing extreme frisbee in the apartment. New traditions — beer pong and pie on Christmas, safe at home with his family — his  _ chosen _ family; people he actually  _ liked. _ Bucky could get used to this.

He could get used to the way Steve chuckled after Natasha sent a ping pong ball into a red cup and cheered for him to ‘drink, bitch!’ Bucky could get used to the way Steve bounced the ball off the table and caught it on the back of his hand before letting it drop and sending it flying back at Nat. Bucky could get used to the causal brush of a hand on the small of his back — easy as breathing.

Sam and Nat didn’t leave until the following morning, after they’d sobered up enough to get home safely. Steve made them  _ promise _ to call if they needed anything. Though Sam, in turn, promised to try  _ not _ to need anything.

*

Bucky woke up from a dream, shaking like a freight car. He bolted upright, slamming his back against the headboard in the process and knocking the breath from his lungs. In the disorienting darkness, he didn’t know where he was; didn’t know what was  _ real  _ for a handful of heart wrenching seconds.

_ Why was he naked? Was he a prisoner? Who was next to him putting their hand on his shoulder? _

“Honey, you’re safe. We’re at home. It’s 2019.”

And as Bucky’s senses came back to him, he started to breathe again. It had been weeks since Bucky had panicked like this. He was doing so well. Hunching forward, head in his hands, he let Steve rub a slow, soothing pattern on his back.

A few deep breaths later and Bucky could speak. He looked up at Steve, worrying his —  _ Steve’s —  _ dog tags between his thumb and forefinger. (He never took them off; they had a permanent home over his heart.)

“It was bad.”

“Come here, doll. What was it?” Voice rough with sleep, Steve reached out for him; held his arms open for Bucky to fall into.

Bucky’s dream had been an amalgamation of horrible experiences — but he didn’t want to talk about them all. He wanted to talk about the thing that hurt the most.

“I don’t understand it all…but,” he dropped his voice lower to hide the tremble in it, though it didn’t do much good. Steve would certainly feel the tears hit his bare chest. “You went  _ back. _ You left me here alone. You had a life with Peggy. You were so  _ happy,  _ and I’m sorry. I’m not actually crying, I’m okay. I shouldn't be upset— you were  _ happy  _ and that’s all I want.” But his voice shook, his eyes were too bright and shining.

“Look at me doll. I ain’t goin’  _ anywhere _ ,” Steve promised, taking his face in both hands, firmly but not roughly. “You think I’m not happy  _ now?  _ Buck — I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.  _ You  _ make me happy. No one else was ever gonna cut it.”

Steve wiped under his eyes with his thumbs as Bucky’s breath hitched. “Felt so real. You had kids. They were the spittin’ image of you.”

“Here, put your hand here,” Steve guided his right hand to his chest, held it right over his heart. The steady, although slightly fast,  _ thump thump  _ told Bucky  _ ‘I’m here, this is real. _ ” The gold and black band on Steve’s left ring finger said ‘ _ this is home.’ _

_ And yes, Bucky did remember — they were married. He remembered the small ceremony with a few friends, most of the Avengers, just the month before — quiet and perfect. He remembered that Steve had invited Tony, and that neither of them had been at all disappointed when he hadn’t come. He remembered Natasha being in charge of the cake and Shuri being in charge of flowers. He remembered Steve looking absolutely devastating in a suit. He remembered breaking a glass and dancing to Harry James’ ‘It's Been a Long, Long Time’ under string lights.  _

And then Bucky could breathe again, like his lungs could expand all the way. He felt like he could reach into the sky.

“Baby,” Steve said more quietly. “If we want kids…we can  _ have _ kids. If that’s somethin’ you wanna talk about.”

Steve looked at him directly in his tear-stained face, resolute and pain-stakingly honest. “I have  _ everything _ I could ever want right here. I need you to understand that. I haven’t — I’m not —  _ settling —  _ if that’s what you’re worryin’ about.”

“If you could do it over again —,” Bucky started, hesitantly, gripping at Steve’s forearm.

“Love — There is no version of reality in which I was prepared to stay. Not without you,” Steve said, patterned in moonlight lines from the window. “That isn’t my time anymore than it is yours. I wouldn’t change  _ anything _ if it meant I didn’t get to have this now.”

(The peace was worth everything he had lost.)

And maybe Steve was right. Even if he’d jumped from the train after him, who’s to say it would have had any impact on the eventual outcome? If Bucky hadn’t fallen, maybe he still would have been taken. Or maybe he would have bled out in the snow. Steve would have still put the Valkyrie in the water. The war would still have been won without either of them there to see it. But it didn’t do to  _ dwell _ on these things. What mattered was right now. 

“I  _ love _ you, you know,” Bucky breathed, settling back against Steve’s chest. He grabbed Steve’s hand and guided it to the back of his head — a wordless request to pet his hair. Steve obliged. Comfort was okay, Bucky reminded himself, it was  _ okay _ to need it.

The moment softened, calmed in quiet heartbeats.

“You’d be a great parent, by the way. Your patience, your dedication. The way when you love something, you love it with your whole being,” Steve added.

Bucky hummed in response. “You think?” 

“I know.”

“Maybe one day.”

Steve kissed him on the forehead, then the cheek, then the lips. (He was always doing that — like only one kiss wasn’t enough.) “Sleep, jerk. I love you a lot. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

And Bucky  _ knew  _ Steve wouldn’t ever go back on his word.

Maybe it was  _ hard  _ thinking back on the time  _ before _ . Maybe it  _ hurt _ — but all the time  _ after _ was well worth the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. I legitimately put my heart and soul into this. If you feel so inclined, please leave some kind words 💙
> 
> Stay safe, happy holidays, happy new year. I’ve been working on a prequel to this story — stay tuned.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on tumblr @not-withoutyou  
> 


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